


Burnt Shadows

by Rena



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Community: deancasbigbang, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 13:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 60,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/527696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years ago, the angels commenced a war against humankind in order to bring paradise on earth. Now, only a few camps of refugees hide and resist the celestial regime. In these times, a young angel is sent to earth with one specific quest: infiltrate the hideouts and find his long lost brother Gabriel, who is rumoured to live amongst the humans, and who could turn the tide of the violence. But the longer he stays with the group if survivors led by Dean Winchester, the more Castiel realises that Heaven’s plan isn’t always just.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the deancasbigbang. I have to thank [dingobaitt](http://dingobaitt.livejournal.com) for being the most amazing artist ever; I am really glad I got to work with you!  
> Also thanks to the lovely [whit_merule](http://whit_merule.livejournal.com) for beta reading and not despairing despite my tendency to write long-ass sentences and split up grammatical units.

  
 

 

 

There was a time, though it seems a thousand lifetimes ago, when Castiel looked upon his Father’s most beloved creation with interest and admiration, watching them mingle and scurry around like ants. He has always had a peculiar curiosity when it comes to humankind, and it has been the reason why he has been subjected to not few bewildered glances and various expressions of incomprehension from his brothers and sisters. They do not understand why he likes to watch men; for the other angels, humanity used to be of little interest, not much more than a tiny piece of the largest puzzle in the whole of existence, and definitely lower in their favour than animals, because animals, at least, do not destroy what their Father has created. They do not understand that this is exactly what fascinates him: their flaws, their faults, and their ability to make sense out of little things that, taken for themselves, are of little meaning.

Of course, that was before the world changed. Now Castiel has little opportunity to examine them closely.

The war has changed everything.

Three years have passed on earth, or so he has been informed (time passes differently in Heaven, and he is not used to counting in earth years), since the first attack was launched to cleanse the world and bring the paradise that their Father promised them. It is not because of Lucifer’s rising, as was originally foretold, but because He looked upon his creation and saw the corruptness of men, the darkness that eats away their flesh and the brightness of their souls. And He decided to end it.

Castiel has participated in only a few of the battles: he assumes that his superiors were reluctant to ask him to smite men. If it is so, then he hopes he has proven them wrong by now. He has fought correctly and ruthlessly on the occasions that have been offered to him, just as was expected of him, just as any angel would have. A small part of his grace wept for the beauty he had to destroy, but it is God’s plan, and God’s plan is just. There is no questioning His orders. Castiel is an angel of the Lord, a soldier of God, and he will follow his orders until the day he is no more. 

And now, it seems, his loyalty and faith and hard work are being rewarded.

“It is a very delicate matter, Castiel, and crucial for the outcome of this war,” Zachariah stresses, “and a task that I can trust only to you.”

Castiel feels the flutter of pride and flattery, and quickly suppresses the sentiment. It is not appropriate for an angel, and he has been told more than once that it can be the road to one’s downfall. “All my brothers are very capable warriors,” he says instead, as a display of humility. “I do not understand what would make me more suitable.”

Zachariah smiles. “You have watched humans like no other angel. Now your knowledge of their ways will help us win this war.”

Castiel frowns. “I do not understand,” he admits. Then again, it isn’t his job to understand; it’s his job to carry out Heaven’s quests to the best of his abilities.

“Do you remember our brother Gabriel?”

The sudden change of topic perplexes him, and he stares at his superior in bewilderment.

“Do you, Castiel?”

He does. It is impossible not to remember Gabriel, the Archangel, the angel of justice, one of the seven favoured ones who stand in the presence of God, with a grace shining so bright and clear it lit up entire galaxies.

It has been a long time since anyone has seen his grace shine.

“I remember him,” he says, and the nostalgia that seeps into his voice is enough to reveal the sadness that the absence of Gabriel has caused.

“Tell me, then, Castiel, where is our brother?” Zachariah asks. “He has not been seen in Heaven for centuries.”

A sudden sense of dread fills him. “But he is not dead.” He would have felt the loss, of that he is sure. Why, then, does his brother looks so grim?

“He is not,” Zachariah agrees.

Castiel relaxes for the beat of a wing, until realisation comes to him. “On earth,” he whispers. “Gabriel is on earth.”

“It is the only possible explanation. He has been walking the earth for so long that he can pass for a human, and he masks his grace so well that we have not been able to detect him, regardless of how thorough our search was. It was not enough. This is why I am sending you to earth. You need to find him. You need to find our brother.”

“How?” Castiel asks. The earth is wide he would not know where to start; and if Gabriel still walks amongst humans...

Zachariah is tight-lipped when he speaks again, and his wings shudder as he bristles with anger. “We have heard some disturbing rumours. The resistance has, in some areas, grown stronger. We fear that Gabriel has lost his path, that he has been giving them information. You have to stop him.”

Horror floods him. “You want me to-“ He cannot bring himself to utter the words. How could he? It is a terrible request, even if his brother should have indeed betrayed them.

“No, no! You must not harm him. But do remind him where he belongs. Convince him to come back. If he is being unreasonable and refuses to listen to your words, come to me, and I will consult with Michael.” Zachariah lays a hand on his shoulder. “You have studied humans and their manners, and now is the time to put your knowledge to good use. You will take your vessel, hide your grace and pose as a human. Infiltrate their lines and find our brother. It is a difficult task, but I know you will not fail me.”

He doesn’t wait for Castiel to respond; why would he? He has been given an order, and he will follow it through, despite his doubts, despite his fear that his disguise will be insufficient. If God wants him to do it, then he will.

So he does as he is told, lets his grace seep into the human body that he chose before the war began, and dives through the sky, downwards, to earth. 


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Castiel notices is the heat, and it catches him by surprise. He has been on earth before, several times, but without masking his grace. Back then, he had not been able to perceive such insignificant things like climate changes; neither heat nor cold had ever bothered him, because angels are not subject to the same concepts men are. But now his grace is hidden inside him as deeply as possible, almost entirely cut off from his access, and the sensation is more powerful than he had imagined it would be. He faintly notices his vessel’s reactions to the raised temperature, but he pays them no heed. He cannot afford to, not now.

He takes a hesitant look around, and is shocked by what he sees.

There is not much left of the world as he knew it.

The amount of debris is overwhelming: rubble and dirt are everywhere, next to the burning remains of what seems to have been a car, once. The breeze that makes his trenchcoat flap also whirls some pieces of garbage around, playing with them like a cat would with dust bunnies.

A little further, there is a dark red liquid staining the ground, turning the soil a sinister auburn colour. A body lies not far away, forgotten and decaying. The sickeningly sweet smell of rotting flesh fills the air and if Castiel had been human, entirely human, his stomach would have turned at the sight of the little girls’ body that is the source of the odour. Being an angel, it does not affect him that much. Still, he feels a pang of sorrow, and can’t help but think that this cannot be what God wanted.

Looking around, Castiel realises that he has no idea where he actually is. He has to admit that he had not paid much attention to destination, simply aiming for the general area in which he has been told the resistance is the strongest. Now he has no means of finding out whether he is close to them or not. Then again, no one knows this. If the angels had any leads concerning the whereabouts of the rebels, they would have wiped them off the map months ago. It is another mystery that is yet to be solved. Men should not be able to hide so easily from Heaven’s forces.

Zachariah might be right, he fears. It might be a sign of Gabriel’s intervention, in which case he has to make haste.

He won’t allow one of his brothers to Fall.

He searches the houses first, but the small town is deserted save for some stray animals that roam the street, feeding on trash and, occasionally, on human bodies. Castiel has seen much in the wars he has fought in, and most of it was worse. He knows, too, that once the souls have left the bodies to enter either Heaven or hell there is, technically, no need to worry about the remains, especially since the humans are their enemies in this fight. Even so, he wishes his brothers would have had the decency to not let them rot on the open streets.

With no hints as to where to go next, Castiel takes a moment to consider the most efficient course of action. If he were human, he supposes, he would try to find shelter in the countryside, tostay away from the large cities and congregations of people that were sure to attract the angels’ attention. No, he thinks, he must search for them in more remote places.

In the west, he can see the faint outlines of mountains standing out against the horizon. It’s as good a direction to start as any, so he turns around and leaves the town behind him.

 

∞

 

He walks on for hours, until the soil under his feet is getting drier, stony and steep. The sun is still beating down mercilessly, having risen up to its zenith and now slowly descending again, without losing any of its force. Castiel does not like it, the sensations and reactions of his body. There is no one around, so he lets his grace spread a little further and wipes away the sweat and the feeling of discomfort and keeps them suppressed. His walk isn’t made any more or less tedious by that – as an angel, even with most of his strength locked away, it does not tire him out in the slightest – but he does feel less annoyed by one of the apparent downsides of humanity he is experiencing. Castiel makes a mental note to keep repressing this unless it should turn out that it makes the humans sense empyrean origins and make them suspicious of him.

Castiel wishes he could allow himself to fly closer to the mountains instead of using this so much slower method, but he cannot risk being seen. He must take precautions now to appear as normal as possible.

If he is honest with himself, Castiel has to admit that he has never been so scared of failure before. It is true; he has been watching humans for a long time, but he is unsure whether he has made close enough observations to fit in. He doesn’t believe it. And even if he does, he doubts everything will go smoothly.

There is only one benefit to his march, namely the time it gives him to look inside his vessel and become a little more familiar with its functions. If he wants the deception to be successful, he will have to learn to wear this body as if it was his own.

He feels strange inside his vessel now. Of course, he’d never been entirely comfortable inside a vessel: it restrains his true form and generally feels too small to contain him. It’s too small and crowded and simply not made for containing an angel. He has always preferred being himself, spreading out his wings and diving through the skies, regardless of how much humans fascinated him.

Now this body feels somewhat less like a prison, yet still like it doesn’t really belong to him. It does, though. Castiel had released the soul of Jimmy Novak, the man who had given him permission to use his body, shortly before the war started. He had sent him to Heaven after a couple of fights, to rest in peace like a devout person deserves to.

Before, Castiel has never noticed his absence: the body had served him to get from one point to another on earth, nothing more. He has not taken the time to grow accustomed to it, despite his curiosity, and he imagines his movements must look quite stiff and jerky, giving away his extraterrestrial origins at once. He just hasn’t had the time to explore how a human body functions in practice. He knows all about the theory, but experiencing it is another thing entirely, he muses. The longer he walks, the more accustomed he grows to his vessel, and yet he is still sure that he will never wear this body as if he owns it. 

He hadn’t anticipated he would somehow feel almost lonely without the faint hint of the warmth of a human soul pressed into a tiny corner, now that he actually takes the time to make himself familiar with this body. A part of him wishes Jimmy Novak was still in here with him, regardless of the fact that it would feel even more crowded and that the man would probably scream and kick and shout at him for all the things he let happen, all the things he has done. For all the things he is about to do.

Castiel doesn’t remember the sound of Jimmy’s voice well, but the faint echo of his thoughts still swirls around his brain: _No, stop this, stop this, you lying bastard, this is not what I agreed to, this is not what I let you use my body for, this is not what I abandoned my family for, give it back to me, let me go, let me go, let me go!_

Castiel is an angel, and angels don’t have feelings the way humans do, but now there is a pang of remorse cutting his way through the thick fog of indifference that is his grace and that usually muffles every tiny trace of sentiment.

This is new.

Castiel inhales sharply and stumbles to a halt. It’s not a strong sentiment, nothing particularly overwhelming, but it is enough to throw him for a loop and make him lose his focus for a second. As it turns out, this short moment of letting his guard down is one moment of carelessness too much. He hears the rustling of clothes and the sounds of shoes scraping against the stony ground not early enough to warn him sufficiently. When he looks up, there is a gun pointing at his head.

Castiel blinks, baffled and not a little shocked. He should have been able to sense the humans before they came that close. They should not have been able to hide themselves so thoroughly. And he should have been able to hear them. He hadn’t realised just how muffled every single one of his senses would be. Castiel wonders how humans cope. They really must have perfected the use of their mediocre senses in order to survive.

“Hey!” The voice is rough and dark and belongs to the young man aiming the gun at him. “Hands over your head.”

Castiel tilts his head. The man in front of him is tall, with short, brown hair and surprisingly green eyes. By human standards, Castiel muses, he is probably considered beautiful. His face is hard, though, lips pressed into a tight line and all his muscles tense, like a predatory cat in the seconds before the attack. Everything about him screams warrior, but when Castiel reaches out with his grace, just the tiniest bit, to catch a glimpse at his soul, he is momentarily startled by the brightness with which his soul shines.

“Hey!” the man gruffs again, and Castiel quickly draws back his grace before he can notice anything. “Are you deaf? I said hands over your head!”

Castiel blinks again, unsure why the man would request this of him. “You should be careful,” he admonishes him mildly. “You could kill someone with this weapon.”

A small, wary frown is all that gives away that this might not have been a satisfactory response. The man’s eyes flit to his left, just briefly, to where another, older and shorter man is standing, as if to silently come to an agreement on the next course of actions. There’s a minuscule nod from the older, bearded man, who keeps his gun pointed into Castiel’s direction but lets his eyes skim the surrounding. Both of them are on high alert.

It occurs to Castiel that he should probably at least pretend to be worried about the firearms they are threatening him with. It would be a normal human’s reaction, he assumes; to be scared of losing their lives. Obviously, they don’t scare him in the slightest, as they can do him no harm, but it is most likely an unusual reaction to a situation like this one.

The man in front of him narrows his eyes at him and takes a slow step forward to examine him more closely. “Who are you?” he asks mistrustfully.

“Cas-“ He realises his mistake as soon as the first syllable has left his mouth. Castiel is not a name a human would have. Luckily, he is quick enough to cut himself off before giving himself away. “Cas. My name is Cas.”

He grunts. “You got a last name to go with that?”

“Novak,” Castiel supplies, because it is the easiest to make use of his vessel’s name. “Cas Jimmy Novak.”

He hears the footsteps behind him before he is able to sense the man approaching. It worries him. Something is definitely off. “No signs of angels anywhere, Dean,” the newcomer says. He is very tall, even taller than the first man – Dean, apparently – and spouts a rather unruly mob of hair. While his face is generally more open, he moves with a certainty that tells him that he knows what he is doing, and that he is not any less alert. “I think he’s clean.”

Dean snorts and jerks his head. “Search him for weapons, Sam, will you?” He turns to look at Castiel once more. “Don’t move,” he orders.

“I do not carry any weapons,” Castiel informs him matter-of-factly. It is the truth, too – naturally, he could always summon his angelic blade, but at this very moment, he is not in the possession of any weapons, angelic or not.

“Oh yeah?” Dean says. “Well, man, then you’re either not as innocent as you look or you’re really fucking stupid. No one goes without a gun these days.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows; a gesture he has seen on humans many times. He hopes he does it the right way. “I do not see the profit in carrying any weapons that would not be of any use when trying to fend off angels,” he states calmly, but does not resist when Sam steps close to search him for weapons. A minute later Sam, obviously satisfied with his inspection, stands back and gives Dean a curt nod.

“Okay,” Dean says, voice still full of suspicion, “how did you know where to find us?”

Castiel tilts his head. “I didn’t,” he answers truthfully. “It appears to me that you found me.”

“Yeah, right. Who would walk around these grounds if he wasn’t searching for something, huh? What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” Castiel says slowly, “and I’m sure we would both give the same answer.”

“Leave it, Dean,” Sam cuts in. He has relaxed visibly, apparently not considering him a threat anymore. “Everyone’s running from the angels these days. Don’t be a dick.”

Castiel is relieved that this is the conclusion they jump to without him having to lie. Dean does not seem to be a hundred per cent sure, but Sam’s words do have an effect on him, and he slowly lowers the gun. “Sorry,” he shrugs, not sounding sorry at all. “Guy shows up suddenly out of nowhere, you’re bound to be a little suspicious.”

“It is perfectly understandable. I do not take offense.”

Dean blinks, then shrugs again. “Whatever. Follow us.”

Castiel is momentarily stunned by the sudden turn of events, and Dean, who notices his hesitation, turns around and looks at him with his eyebrows raised. “What, you didn’t think we’d let stroll around here on your own now, did ya? Sorry, pal, but no can do. If we let people outside our little community walk away, we’d be long dead. Can’t have you being caught and giving away our location, so I’m afraid you’re gonna have to stay with us for now.” He stops in his tracks. “You’re not going to give us any trouble, are you? Because I wouldn’t like to shoot you in the head.”

This makes Castiel stop as well.

Sam shoots Dean a disapproving glare, and Dean shrugs. “Don’t bitch-face at me, Samantha. It’s only the truth.”

His statement does nothing to lessen Sam’s glare, and the younger man turns to Castiel, his facial expression melting into something mildly apologetic. “Sorry, it’s just that... well.” He trails off, shifting uncomfortably, unable to finish the sentence, as if he felt that there was no excuse for this behaviour whatsoever, but he is going through with it because it’s necessary nonetheless. 

“Why would you do that?” Castiel asks, not solely out of curiosity but also out of surprise, and maybe even a little bit of shock. He has always known that humans aren’t exactly demure with ending the lives of others, but he would have thought that, in times like these, when they are under severe danger, they would develop a finer sense of solidarity.

Again, it is Dean who answers. On the first look, he does seem to be as uneasy talking about killing him as Sam is – portraying an honesty and boldness that surprises Castiel – but the angel can see the tight lines around his lips that give him away, revealing how much he detests every second of this. “Look, buddy... um, Cas, right? We’ve got almost twenty people to look after back there, and we protect each other. I know that every single one of them would rather die than give away the location of the hideout if they were captured. With you, I can’t be sure of that. And I’d hate to harm you, but if it means I could save the people I care about – then so be it.” He starts to walk again, and Castiel follows.

“You are suspicious of me.”

“I’m suspicious of everybody. How do you think we survived this long?”

“It is only understandable.” Castiel nods, somewhat reassured that they at least do not appear to regard him with more suspicion than other newcomers. “Do a lot of refugees find you by accident and decide they’d rather go on alone?” What he really means is, ‘have you had to shoot someone before?’, but either Dean does not pick up on it – it’s no wonder, Castiel muses; he doesn’t think he is particularly good at subtlety yet, but after letting his guard down earlier he is too cautious as to ask directly – or he simply chooses to ignore it.

“Sometimes. Less often now, though, and it’s been a long time since the last one. Don’t think there’re a lot of us left standing.” He feigns nonchalance, but even Castiel, who is so unpractised when it comes to human emotions, can hear the anger and bitterness in his voice. He must hate the angels very much.

“How did you survive out there for so long, anyway?” For the first time, the oldest man speaks up.

The question has Castiel stumped for a moment as he realises he does not have an adequate story made up. He cannot tell them the truth, but lying is still a sin, a violation of God’s ten commandments, the commandments which might have been made for men but are honoured by the Host as well. When he opens his mouth tentatively to speak, he tells them something that, albeit true, has nothing to do with the context. “I am good at hiding.” He tilts his head. “As are you, obviously, if you still haven’t been detected by the Host.”

“Got a few tricks up our sleeves.”

“So it would seem.” Castiel leaves it at that for the moment. If the humans are reluctant to tell him more, then so be it. He might find out in his own time. Either way, it is not his mission to investigate their methods. Their means of tricking the angels are of little importance to him, unless they should turn out to be the work of Gabriel.

The three men only shrug in response, and lead him on. It's a quiet walk, mostly, and a long one. Castiel can't help but feel bewildered that they aren’t trying to move in a straight line from one point to another. Investing the time to make detours would make sense if they chose paths more easily accessible, but instead they seem determined to lead him over the roughest terrain imaginable. He may not be familiar with the territory, but he has a well enough sense of orientation to notice that they’re mostly just zigzagging back and forth. For a while he suspects that they’re lost, but judging from the lack of worry that is not the case. Eventually, the thought occurs to him that they’re probably trying to disorient him and make it harder for him to remember the route to the hideout, ensuring that if he ever intended to lead someone there, he’d face some difficulties.

  
It's nothing that hasn't happened before, Castiel knows. Some humans have been so desperate to save their own lives or the lives of their loved ones, that they have betrayed their friends or any other survivors they might have seen, trying to make a deal with the angels: giving the location of rebel hideouts away in exchange for their survival. Obviously, they never thought that, as soon as they had delivered the information the angels needed, the Host would see it more fit than ever to kill them. The Heavenly forces have always despised traitors, and it only makes them look down on these men with more disgust, justifying  their belief that the humans must be wiped from Creation.

  
Dean and the ones he seeks to protect must have caught on to this. Indeed, their careful behaviour is sensible and understandable. Still, Castiel hopes it will not lead them to observing him more closely. So far, he seems to have succeeded in appearing human; but then again, he has been conversing with them for little more than five minutes.

  
The little path they follow makes a sharp turn, and suddenly Dean is diving under a rock to his right, where a small hole opens up between the large stones. Castiel has to duck his head too, to fit through, and when he straightens himself again, he is standing within a dark, narrow passage carved into the rocks by the wind over millennia. Hardly any light manages to seep through the opening. Castiel has a better night vision than humans, though, allowing him to make out the outline of the natural walls as well as several smaller passages diverging from the one they are standing on. From what he can tell, it seems to be a rather intricate tunnel system. Curiously, it appears to be entirely the product of nature’s course, not something made by the rebels, although they certainly profit from the labyrinthine structure. Anyone unfamiliar with the tunnel system could easily end up getting lost. He wonders whether this is how they both keep strangers out and keep the people they don’t trust from leaving.

He steps aside a little to let Sam enter, which gets him a quiet “Thanks, man,” before his attention shifts to Dean. “Bobby’ll man the entrance for a while.”

Bobby. Castiel carefully files away the name for later usage. Humans tend to lay a stronger focus on names than angels do; of course, all of his brothers have names, too, but they are not as desperate to seeing themselves as individuals and are usually perfectly content to be addressed by the term “brother” or “sister”. Most of them even prefer it: the affirmation of their familial bonds and the love transmitted by the words makes their grace thrum with happiness. Humans, he has found in his earlier observations, identify much more with their name, favouring individuality over the collective. Addressing all of them by their names might be vital.

 “I guess we’ll be giving you the grand tour, then. Don’t trip,” Dean says. With that, he starts down the passage, not a sign of hesitation in his step as if he doesn’t even need his eyes, his body having memorised the way. The same goes for Sam, his presence a steady warmth following Castiel closely, occasionally warning him – unnecessarily, but he cannot know that – about tripping hazards. Even without knowing him well, Castiel is convinced that he is a good person. There is a spark in his eyes that conveys a quick mind and interest for a lot of things, and a warm heart. If things weren’t the way they are, Castiel would probably like him a great deal.

Dean, in the meantime, is quiet as he leads the way (again, Castiel is sure, taking some turns that are not necessary and only serve to confuse him), his hand always held so that his gun is within reach, the tense line of his shoulders confirming that he is ever vigilant. Castiel wonders whether he is always like this or whether it has to do with him; whether the most efficient way to solve this problem would be to steer clear from him as much as possible, or approach him frequently in an attempt to gain his trust. The latter, he fears, might be the harder task: he is not yet convinced of his own acting abilities as if to be sure that they will work on someone already predisposed to mistrust. In fact, he is not even convinced he can fool anyone for a long time.

The path takes a turn, widening, and then, after another turn, opens into a rather large patio, almost perfectly round. Half canopied by overlapping rock, it is nevertheless open enough to let in bright streaks of sunlight to illuminate the circle. The change from utter darkness to the bright daylight is so abrupt that Dean and Sam have to squint their eyes until they adjust, but Castiel just tilts his head and takes a quick look around.  He guesses that this is the centre of the construct. A multitude of other passages lead into the mountains again from this point, in all directions.

“Okay, chuckles,” Dean drawls, “listen closely, ‘cos I’m only telling you once. This field here? Starting point for wherever you want to go. These three tunnels over there lead to the quarters.” He points to the far end of the circle, opposite of them, and then nods towards the entry a little to the left. “That one leads to a little stream that we use for our water supply and the laundry. There’s also another path branching off, for whenever you need to go to the can. I’ll show you later. Just make sure you don’t confuse those, okay? Anyway, this one right over here will bring us right to the kitchen. Come, that’s where we start. I’m friggin’ hungry.”

Sam snorts. “You’re always hungry, Dean.”

“Not everyone can live off rabbit food like you, Sammy.”

“What about the other tunnels?” Castiel interrupts them, cautiously but curiously.

Sam shrugs. “Storage, mostly. Some are unused. Don’t trouble yourself with them until you’ve got these figured out. The tunnels cover quite a large terrain, and searching them for people who get lost isn’t our favourite pastime.”

Castiel deems it best not to point out that he has the entire way so far memorised and follows them obediently.

So far, the only people he has met are Dean, Sam and Bobby, so he is not surprised that he finds a rather large crowd in the kitchen, sitting by several large tables and chatting animatedly. The room itself is quite remarkable, he finds: for people who have been so used to having constant electricity at their disposal, the refugees certainly appear to have adapted well to using old-fashioned stoves run with firewood. It’s a large cave, illuminated not only by several candles but also by something akin to a window cut into one of the walls to let the sunshine in. On the shorter wall, a variety of alcoholic drinks have been stacked behind a bar counter.

The group seems so utterly at ease that it gives the impression that there is no war going on.

The conversations ebb away, though, as soon as the first of them discovers Castiel’s presence. Castiel is immediately subjected to a range of stares, from incredulous though surprised and curious to wary, as far as he can tell.

“About friggin’ time you turned up,” a woman says from behind the counter. “We were beginning to worry.”

“We’re fine, Ellen,” Sam assures her.

“Which is something one can never know with you two muttonheads,” chimes in a short, blonde man with a sharp gaze. “Usually, when you’re taking that long it’s not because you pick up stray puppies on a sidewalk.”

Castiel frowns. “They did not pick up any puppies,” he informs him primly. It earns him an amused snort.

“I was referring to you, sap.”

Castiel blinks, confused. “... I am clearly not a puppy.”

The man whistles and rolls his eyes at Sam and Dean. “Now, don’t you have a knack for picking up the jolly ones.”

There is something in the way he looks at Castiel that strongly contradicts his words. Castiel is fairly unpractised with the concept of sarcasm, but he knows enough about it that he detects an edge to his voice and a tension in his shoulders that worry him. His eyes, a soft honey colour, should be warm and welcoming. Instead, they scrutinise him with a coldness and poignancy as if the man intended to look right into his soul. There’s clearly a sort of threat in his demeanour. Castiel is not a little puzzled, but he has no reason to be intimidated, not here, not now, when none of the persons in this room are any match for him in a fight, so he just stand a little straighter and meets his gaze calmly. The man’s eyes linger on him a bit longer; then he cocks his head ever so slightly, makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and relaxes the tiniest bit. For now, it seems, he has passed whatever test he was subjected to, but Castiel does not fool himself into believing that he will not watch him very closely.

The young woman sitting closest to Castiel chuckles, clearly amused by their little wordless face-off, and flashes him a bright smile. “Don’t let him get to you. Loki’s an idiot. He insults everyone, but he doesn’t mean it.”

Castiel stops short at that name, but before he can process the situation fully, Dean clasps a hand over his shoulder. “Shut your cakehole, Loki. Guys, listen up, this is Cas. He’ll be staying with us, so you know the drill. Cas, the vertically challenged loudmouth over there is Loki. The lovely lady behind the bar is Ellen, that is her daughter Jo,” he points to the blonde who smiled at him – “then we got Chuck, Becky, Anna, Ash, Andy, Adam, Victor and Bela. Rufus and Jody are on watch right now, so you’ll meet them later, I guess, just like Pamela, Ruby, Lisa and Ben. And that’s it, the whole gang. Any questions? No? Good, then let’s eat something, I’m starving.”

Castiel blinks, and, when Jo scoots over on bench to make room for him, hesitantly sits. He has not considered that, naturally, the humans would invite him to eat. Even now, disguised as a human, he does not need sustenance, any more than he needs to breathe, but refusing to accept the meal would definitely raise suspicions. To be honest, Castiel is a little curious. He has never tasted anything before, and it is a part of the human experience he has always wondered about. 

A moment later, Dean sets down a plate in front of him and moves around the table to let himself flop onto the bench opposite of him. “Dig in,” he says, “but dude, lose the trench coat. I’m hot just looking at you.”

Castiel blinks. “... My apologies,” he offers tentatively, and slowly shrugs out of the coat. “I did not realise my attire would make you uncomfortable.”  He does not fully understand what the problem is – as per his prior knowledge, the clothing is perfectly decent for this part of the world – until he remembers the sudden wave of heat maltreating his vessel when landing in the small town this morning, before he suppressed the effects of nature on his body. He makes a mental note to allow and tolerate the influence from now on, as unpleasant as it is for him.

“No need to apologise,” Dean chuckles, “I’m just wondering how you are not feeling like you’re being roasted alive.”

Castiel bites his lips and, once again, decides to go with the half-truth. “Heat has never affected me much.”

“Lucky you,” Dean comments, and shovels an almost alarmingly large spoonful of food into his mouth.

Castiel takes it as his cue to start eating as well, after eyeing the meal somewhat inquisitively. There is a part of him, the one that has always been fascinated by humans and their strange customs, that itches to know what it is, but he is well aware that a display of his utter lack of knowledge would not bode well. Therefore he opts to stay silent for the time being and carefully scoops a little bit on his spoon and raises it to his mouth. A gentle nudge of his grace against the faint memories of Jimmy Novak swirling around in his brain provides him with a word, ‘pasta’, and the term brings weak echoes of different flavours ghosting over his tongue.

This is nothing like what this body remembers.

Castiel actually pauses in surprise for a second when the noodles come in contact with his tongue and a kaleidoscope of flavours erupts in his mouth. The sensory stimulus is overwhelming, and he thinks, absentmindedly, while he carefully chews and swallows, that it is incredibly easy to understand men’s obsession with food. Up until now, humans’ perception of the world with their senses has appeared to be nothing but suboptimal, imperfect even; their eyes aren’t sharp and their hearing is not fine enough to effectively warn them in case of danger, and it is common knowledge that they are inferior to many animals when it comes to their senses, but this, this is something he cannot even find words to describe.

One of the women – Anna, he thinks – giggles. “Dude, you look like you’re about to jizz in your pants. How long since you last ate?”

He stops. Although he is not quite sure what she is alluding to with her first sentence – he desperately needs to take a closer look into the people’s minds here, when it is safe (possibly while they are sleeping) in order to update and perfect his vocabulary – it is obvious that she will want an answer to the second one. “Too long,” he says quietly, and his mouth twists wistfully with the consciousness that he has just told his first outright lie.

He hasn’t yet swallowed his second bite when Loki leans forward, props his chin up on his hands and asks, languidly, “So, Cas, where did you come from?”

Sam rolls his eyes and shoves him. “Seriously, Loki, cut the guy some slack. At least let him finish eating before you pepper him with questions.”

“It is alright,” Castiel assures him. “It does not bother me.”

Bela snorts. “Well, you’d be the first one not to be bothered by this loudmouth.”

“Hey!”

“Could you guys please just not fight? I have a headache,” Andy complains, and everyone shuts up immediately, except for Sam, who grins and tells him that maybe the fourth bong load wasn’t such a good idea after all.

Loki doesn’t ask again, although Castiel is sure that he is planning to ask a lot more questions later, and he is relieved that Sam’s intervention gives him more time to carefully think up a plausible and consistent background story and brace himself. It never comes to this verbal confrontation, though: a woman, who is later introduced to him as Jody, barges into the room, informs him that something is broken and drags him with her as she leaves. The others seem perfectly content engaging in their previously abandoned conversations and let some time pass before asking the questions that are clearly burning on their tongues. When his plate is empty, he tells them that he is originally from Pontiac, Illinois, and used to be a tax accountant, and that he has been on the run. The former pieces of information are both true, in a way, if he is to identify with the past of his vessel, the second is obviously not, but it’s nothing they don’t already consider a given, and it is the answer they would expect.

They don’t pry, thankfully, and do not voice any complaints when Dean stands up only about two minutes later, resolutely puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and announces that he will show him to his room. He follows his lead back to the patio and then into a little wider, less intricate tunnel. Every five feet or so, actual wooden doors are set into the stone.

Dean notices Castiel’s surprise and grins wryly. “Yeah, these were a nightmare to get a hold of, but they were worth every drop of sweat. Keep the warmth in, mostly. These caves would be sons of bitches to stay in during the winter otherwise.”

“I beg to differ. Caves built in this kind of rock exist all over the world and have been used as shelter by humans for centuries. They are well suited to keep the warmth in during the winter and the heat out during the summer, thanks to their natural thermal energy storage.”

Dean throws him a weird look, a mixture of annoyance and respect. “Dude, are you a geologist on a freelance basis?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I... merely happen to be interested in a lot of different areas.”

Dean snorts. “Oh Jesus. You and Sammy are gonna get along just great. I can already see you geeking out together.”

He finally stops in front of the last door of the corridor. Castiel cannot help but notice that the echo of his footsteps on the hard ground would make it nigh impossible to sneak put without any of the others noticing and being intercepted. Of course, when the time for him comes to move on to the next rebel cell, he will not have to take the way by foot. Zachariah will most likely think he is wasting his time here: so far, Castiel has been unable to detect any traces of grace whatsoever in the vicinity, and he is quite sure that none of the survivors he has met so far could possibly be Gabriel. Still, he might be wrong – after all, his brother has been hiding from the entire Host for a long time – and furthermore, he has yet to meet several members of this group. If he is not here... well, it is likely that the different rebel camps are communicating with each other. He will gather information on their location in order to facilitate his search, and maybe he will also be able to find clues concerning Gabriel’s whereabouts. For now, he will stay here.

“That one’s yours. Make yourself at home,” Dean says and pushed the door open. “It’s pretty small, but it’s mostly for sleeping anyway. I had Rufus lay out one of the spare mattresses here, so you should be all set.”

“Thank you.”

Against his expectations, Dean does not leave. Instead, he steps into the small room with Castiel and leans against the wall.  He might have limited knowledge of human behaviour, but it is not difficult to foresee the question hanging on his lips.

Castiel stand a little straighter. “You still want answers,” he notes, and it is not a question. He has expected this would happen. “My response concerning my abilities to hide from the angels have not been satisfactory.”

“Yeah, well, no, obviously not. You didn’t really tell us anything.” For someone who has basically just bluntly declared that he does not trust him, Dean looks astonishingly relaxed. Castiel thinks it must be because this is his domain; and unlike him, Castiel has no weapons at hand. None that Dean knows of, that is. “And look, I’m willing to give you the benefit of doubt or whatever here, because the few who are left, we have to stick together, but you can’t expect me not to take a double take when someone just meanders through the country with no provisions, no spare clothing, not even water and apparently without worrying that the angels might detect him.”

Again, Castiel is angered by his own mistake. It is becoming more and more obvious that he has not planned this mission through thoroughly enough. In Heaven, Castiel is known for being almost meticulous to a fault, taking even the smallest details into consideration. Down here on Earth, one of his fortes is being rescinded, and he only has himself to blame.

“I... was forced to leave my supplies behind in a hurry, I’m afraid,” he says carefully. “And I was left with no opportunity to retrieve them. I... found it more advisable to move along instead of turning back.”

Dean makes a small, amused sound and shakes his head in a way that Castiel interprets as him conceding to his point.

“But I believe this is not what you are most interested in.” Castiel tilts his head, contemplates for a second, and makes a decision. “Do you have a piece of paper?”

Dean’s brows furrow in momentary confusion. “Um. Yeah, sure.” He reaches into his back pocket, fumbling around until his fingers gets hold of a very small, crumpled piece of paper. He hands it to Castiel, and, a moment later, produces the broken stump of a pencil as well.

Castiel thanks him quietly, not commenting on the rather insufficient means, and after a couple of tries manages to hold the pencil in a way that makes the graphite leave traces on the paper, allowing him to scribble some Enochian sigils. Dean watches him with some curiosity. When Castiel hands him the paper, his facial expression runs the gamut from incomprehension, astonishment, confusion, to something akin to awe as realisation settles in.

“Dude,” he breathes, “is that what I think it is?”

“It depends on what you think it is,” Castiel offers unhelpfully. “If you suspect that these are Enochian letters, then the answer is yes. If it isn’t, then you are incorrect.”

Dean rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath that Castiel can’t quite make out. He thinks it might have had something to do with the formality of his speech, though. His chance to ponder this further is nullified when the human suddenly narrows his eyes in latent wariness. “How come you know the language of the angels?”

“I... was raised in a very religious family.” If Dean notices the slight hesitation, he doesn’t let on. “For me and my brothers, this was nothing more than basic knowledge.”

“Huh.” Dean nods slowly, processing the information. “You know a lot about angels, then?”

“Yes.”

“And your family also taught you how to fend them off? Seems a little... out-of-character for people who probably worshipped these dickwads.”

Castiel grits his teeth, deliberately not dwelling on the insult that has his grace glow with unexpected ire. “It’s not technically against angels.”

“Okay.” Dean looks at the paper again. “So what is it?”

“It’s a protective spell.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean rolls his eyes in exasperation. “I mean, what does it do exactly? Must be one hell of a powerful spell if you can just walk around in open daylight like that.”

 Castiel frowns. “It’s... hard to describe. Essentially, it shifts the focus of any ill-disposed creature just a little bit to the side and –“

“Makes them look straight past you,” Dean finishes in his stead. He catches on surprisingly quickly, Castiel thinks.

“Correct.”

“Cool.” A sudden grin spreads over his features and lightens up his face. “So, for this spell to work... ”

“It will be enough to carry a copy of this with you.”

“No sacrificial goat required?” Dean quips.

“No.”

“Cool,” Dean says again, folds the paper and shoves it back into his pocket. “That’s definitely up a notch from the hex bags we’re using.”

Castiel feels his eyebrows rise in surprise. It’s not a conscious gesture, more like a muscle memory; later, when he has time to think about it, the ease of it will throw him off guard. Right now, however, he has other things in mind. “You can compose a hex bag against angels?” he inquires, baffled. Only extremely powerful witches should have the knowledge to do this. Castiel hadn’t been aware there had been any witch powerful enough left when the war began; the great times of witchcraft have been long over, most of their skills and knowledge forgotten.

This time, Dean is the one who hesitates, conspicuously so. “Yeah. So, you see... angels aren’t the only supernatural creatures out there,” he begins, moving his hands in a fashion that suggests he does not quite know how to put this. “Actually, I think five years ago you would’ve called me a nutjob, but I guess it’s probably easier to wrap your head around it today. So, like I said. Not only angels. Witches, werewolves, vampires, evil spirits, ghosts... they all exist. Always have.”

“I know that,” Castiel informs him.

“You do?” Dean stares. “You were a hunter, too?”

This information is a big piece of the puzzle, Castiel thinks, and some things he has observed in Dean Winchester’s mannerism make a lot more sense now. At first, he had chalked his calmness and professionalism up to the experiences of the human-angelic war, or possibly military service before that. In hindsight, he should have suspected that the fluidity of his movements, the obvious familiarity with it hinted at an extraordinary upbringing. The sureness he possesses is that of someone who has been a hunter all his life, who has been raised into, and lives and breathes hunting.

“No,” Castiel replies truthfully when he realises that Dean is still waiting for an answer. “But I... have had some contact with the supernatural world. I take it you are one?”

“Yeah. Sammy, too. Dad raised us into this life after our mom died.” So Sam is Dean’s younger brother. Castiel will make sure to remember this. The strong bond between them had been visible, and he thinks that maybe he should have guessed that family ties were the explanation for this. “Bobby, Rufus, Ellen and Jo are, too.”

Castiel tilts his head. “I am no longer surprised that you managed to survive this long,” he confesses. “I suppose no other group of humans would have been able to discover protection against the Host.”

Dean’s face turns into a slight grimace. “To be honest, we can’t really take the credit for that,” he admits reluctantly. “Ruby was the one who taught us how to do the hex bags.”

“Is she a hunter as well?”

“No.” Dean lets out a short, almost strangled laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “No. She’s....ahm...” he clears his throat, “she’s a demon, actually. But she was a witch before, uh, you know.”

Castiel is shocked. “You work with a demon?”

The grimace is more edged this time. “That was my initial reaction, too. Never thought that would happen, but... she saved both mine and Sammy’s asses more than once. Anyway, she doesn’t want the angels to smite her ass; we don’t want them on our trail either. We’ve got a common enemy, here. Ruby’s actually not half bad.” Dean stops short, and shudders. “Don’t tell my brother I said that. He’d be a smug little shit for _months._ ” When he catches Castiel’s expression, something in his demeanour shifts. “This isn’t gonna be a problem for you, is it?”

Castiel desperately wants to say that yes, it is going to be a huge problem, because he is pretty positive that it will be nigh impossible to suppress the urge to smite the demon on the spot once he faces her, but he cannot tell Dean that, so he forces himself to shake his head. “No. No, of course not. I was merely... taken by surprise.”

Dean nods. “Okay, anyway. Do you think you could make copies of this protective spell for everyone here?”

“Of course. If you can give me access to stationery.” A small voice in the back of his head tells him that Zachariah will not be pleased with him providing protection for the rebels. Another part of him argues that it is necessary to gain their trust. Furthermore, Castiel can pinpoint the location of the hideout, should he ever be ordered to do so, if the angels decide to finally destroy the rebel cells.

“No problem, chuckles. Do you think we can also put them on the walls?”

“That would be inadvisable,” Castiel negates. “It would raise suspicion if an entire area would abruptly be inaccessible to the angels’ visions. They would realise there was some unnatural activity, and probably proceed to burn the entire area to the ground. A different spell might work, however.”

“Do you know a spell like that?” Dean raises his eyebrows.

Castiel does, but he figures he should not give this away. He shakes his head.

Dean seems to consider this. “How good is your Enochian?”

“It is... quite fluent.”

“Super.” Dean scratches his stomach, an absentminded, natural and startlingly graceful movement. “I got a job for you then. Everyone holds his own around here, and we could put your geekery to good use. Bobby’s got a couple of books full of angel lore and some really ass-old stuff we haven’t been able to translate, so I’d say have a look at that and see if you can make sense of that gibberish.”

Castiel nods, solemnly. “I would be glad to do that.” It is not a promise that he will give them more protection, although he thinks he might. That he even considers this is unanticipated. Only a day ago he was concerned with Gabriel helping the humans, and now that he has found out that he hasn’t – at least not these people – he is the one doing what he had deemed unthinkable. It is a small price to pay, though, should the humans be able to provide him with information on Gabriel.

The thought of his brother takes his thoughts back to his original tasks, and he adds, “I would enjoy helping you as well as possible before I move on.”

Dean stops halfway to the door, startled. “Move on?” he repeats, incredulously.

“It is not my intention to stay here, Dean, despite your hospitality. I cannot.”

“Why?” Dean demands, righteous anger and distrust suddenly eradiating from his posture.

Castiel tries – and fails – to come up with a good reason to leave that does not involve telling him at least part of the truth. Maybe it is even better this way, he reckons. From what he has seen of Dean and Sam’s interaction, the brothers are very close, and Dean seems to be fiercely protective of the people he loves; it is quite likely that he will understand Castiel’s desperation to find his own brother better than most.

He bites his lip – another muscle memory, it would seem. “I am afraid I have not been entirely honest with you when you asked what I was doing here,” he admits slowly, and watches Dean’s whole body tense. Yes, he is definitively a hunter, with very strong instincts. “I am looking for my brother.”

His words work like a fist to Dean’s guts. It looks as if all his suspicion is punched out of him like the air is punched out of his lungs. “Your brother?”

“Yes. I was hoping that I could find him in one of the survivors’ camps.”

Dean nods, slowly. “What’s his name?”

“Gabriel,” Castiel says. “His name is Gabriel.” It’s a common enough name amongst humans, unlike Castiel.

“I don’t think I know anyone going by that name,” Dean says after a moment of silence. “But I can ask around. We’re in contact with other groups. Maybe someone has heard of him.” He doesn’t sound too optimistic.

Castiel sighs. “He might not go by this name anymore.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Dean frowns.

“He...” Castiel takes in a deep breath. “I haven’t seen my brother in many years,” he explains. “He... ran away. I believe he was unhappy with our father and the way things were handled in... our family.”

“Not a big fan of religion, I gather?”

“His faith was not the issue,” Castiel says sharply. He won’t let anyone discredit Gabriel’s integrity. Dean blinks at his outburst, and Castiel quickly constrains himself, mollifying his tone. “I was very young when he left. I haven’t heard of him since. I cannot even describe with certainty what he looks like today. I fear I will not be able to recognise him unless I see him with my own eyes. I know that if I stood in front of him, I would know it was him.”

There is a pregnant pause, then Dean clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. “Look, man, I don’t – I don’t want to crush your hopes or anything, but... do you have anything to go on? How do you know he isn’t long dead? Call me insensitive but... nowadays most people are dead.”

“If he were dead, I would know it,” Castiel says with a conviction that notably startles Dean. “I would have felt it.” It’s nothing but the truth, but men don’t work that way. “You may not believe me, but I know he is still alive. And I have to find him. I’ve never been more certain of anything.”

Dean looks at him for a long moment, lost in thought, and finally nods, as if he has seen the spark of certainty in Castiel’s eyes. “I don’t think you’re crazy,” he says in the end. “If something happened to Sammy... I think I’d know, too.” He grabs for the door handle. “Okay, you get yourself settled in and work on those spells. I’ll ask around if anyone has heard of a Gabriel, okay? It might not work, but it won’t hurt either. It’ll take a while, but maybe we’ll find him. If not... we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it, alright?”

“Thank you.”

Dean gives him a small smile. As he closes the door behind him, Castiel cannot help but feel sick at the thought of how his readiness to help him, Castiel, who is his enemy even though Dean is not aware of it, might just be what will get them all killed in the end.

∞

He meets the rest of the group in the evening, a while after the sun has set. By that time, he has long since finished drawing the protective spells on the paper Sam had brought him, and spent the time inspecting the walls of his room, trying to subtly extend his grace and search for any signs of angelic activity. Despite stretching his senses out as far as possible, he hasn’t detected a single trace of anything that would suggest Gabriel has ever been close to this area. He has perceived the presence of the demon Dean mentioned (and he had to fight to suppress the very essence of his being that told him to attack), but nothing of celestial origin.

Castiel knows his brothers and sisters, every single one of them, and thanks to his closeness to them it is nearly impossible for any of them to hide. He has always been able to feel at least a weak, pulsating echo of their grace, wherever it touched his father’s creations. Considering that Gabriel is an archangel, said echo should be significantly stronger. His mere presence should bless his surroundings.

Castiel wonders whether he cannot feel Gabriel because he has never been close – which he thinks is possible, but unlikely - or because he has lost his touch with him over the millennia in which he has not seen his older brother.

Or maybe Gabriel just seeks to avoid being found so desperately that he makes sure to thoroughly wipe every sign of his existence behind his steps.

It is not a theory Castiel enjoys considering.

He would have completely forgotten about dinner if Jo had not knocked on his door, handing him a change of clothing and dragging him back to the kitchen. The regularity with which humans have to cater to their bodily needs such as sustenance and sleep is truly cumbersome.

The moment he steps into the kitchen, he knows that the time he spends in this camp will be anything but easy. The proximity of the demon makes his body go rigid, and she seems to have a similar reaction. For the fracture of a second, her eyes flash black: there must be some part of her that senses their clashing natures even with his grace suppressed. His first instinct, naturally, says to lay her hand on her head and burn her out, but there is no way he can do this now, so Castiel grits his teeth and forces his grace back into the farthest corner of his vessel. The demon blinks in surprise, frowns, and then relaxes as she is no longer able to feel the threat lingering in the air.

Strangely enough, it is not Ruby who keeps her distance, but Pamela. Cloaking his grace seems to have been sufficient to deceive the demon, but it is not enough to fool a psychic. She doesn’t openly comment on it, but Castiel knows that she can feel his otherness. Her wariness of him is understandable, and he prays to his Father that she will not recognise his grace for what it is. She might: out of all the rebels, it is obvious that she has had the closest encounter with an angel, and is the only one who has ever spied on an angel’s true form. It has left her with no eyes in her sockets, and a hatred of his brothers that is almost palpable.

Dinner is a slightly awkward affair at first, because the humans suddenly seem to have a thousand questions and apparently have lost all reserve and apprehension about asking them. Some questions he can answer, but then the conversation digresses into a discussion on whether Dumbledore or Gandalf would win a fight – names that mean absolutely nothing to Castiel - and they try to get him to give his opinion and will not settle for his attempts to stay neutral. Luckily, Sam notices his discomfort and tells them to back off under the surmise that Castiel must be tired after wandering through the mountains for hours on end. Some look almost contrite and apologetic for a minute, and then they resume their chatter, leaving Castiel alone save for occasional explanatory remarks on people’s backgrounds and personal stories.

It is curious, he muses, how they all follow Dean and Sam’s lead, although the brothers are by far not the oldest nor the most experienced hunters of their group. With Dean out on watch duty alongside Bobby and Anna, his younger sibling automatically rises to fill his rank, and he is clearly just as respected. Still, the other refugees do not refrain from teasing him or laughing at him. It takes Castiel some time to realise they are only doing so in a very fond way, and easy banter that does nothing to lessen their opinion of the obvious rebel leaders. Sam, it appears, is just as good at dishing out as he is at taking jabs, and he does all in a very good-humoured manner that makes Castiel like him almost as much as his support made him feel grateful.

In the relative peace he can enjoy for the rest of the duration of the meal, he observes the humans’ behaviour closely. He doesn’t yet dare to extend his grace in order to read their minds and explore their feelings, not with Loki scrutinizing him and the blatant tension in the body of the psychic, who seems only to be waiting to sense something supernatural. Even so, he almost feels he learns more about humans in these two hours than he has by watching them from afar for millennia. It’s the closest he has ever gotten to humans and, despite the strain resting on his shoulders, he enjoys his studies more than ever.

Sam, he finds, displays a high intelligence and rationality in the way he talks, and is quick to pick up on details most would overlook. In combination with his empathy and kindness, it makes him hard to dislike. Castiel is not sure what it is that has drawn Sam to Ruby, for they are as different as day and night, but maybe that is the appeal. She is sarcastic and brash and seems to enjoy making trouble, yet he appears to trust her completely, and the others seem to have accepted her, treating her as if she wasn’t a creature that would usually try to kill them. It is perhaps the strangest thing he was witnessed so far: men and a demon teaming up to fight against the Heavenly Host. Castiel hopes that Ruby is a particular case, not the standard. If the forces of hell were to rise instead of hiding, the war would be much more tedious and protracted. Of course, even the combined forces of Lucifer’s creatures couldn’t possibly defeat the angels, but the body count would be enormous. If he finds more demons in the other rebel cells, Castiel decides, he must warn Zachariah.

Rufus is a gruff man, much like Bobby appears to be. They seem to have been hunting together for a long time, which could account for the similarity of their mannerisms. From the way Rufus talks about his old colleague, Castiel is not sure what to deduce about their relationship. It appears to be something like camaraderie, maybe even friendship, but darkened by some unfinished business.

He learns that Ellen owned a bar before she got into hunting, long after her husband had died, that she knows well how to hold her liquor and usually challenges every newcomer to a drinking game, and that the degree of her respect for someone depends on the outcome of said game. The way she treats Sam suggests she sees herself as his surrogate mother. Sam, in turn, seems to regard her and Jo as part of his own little family to a greater extent than he does the rest of the group - even Adam, who turns out to be his half-brother. Joanna Beth is lovely and clearly the one to take the most interest in Castiel, making the greatest effort to get to know him (without the suspicion that Pamela and Loki betray), but he does not doubt her strength and ability for a second.

Ash is without a doubt the most curious person in the room. His looks and laid-back manner stand in harsh contrast to his cognitive skills. “I’m working on a software to track angel activity,” he drops into the conversation as if it was the most natural thing to say, and adds, “I think I’ve almost tackled deciphering the angel radio, but I’ll need Anna’s help for the translating stuff.”

“I thought you knew some Enochian,” Bela says coolly, and Ash shrugs.

“Yeah, but I can’t _listen_ to it without getting a headache.”

Castiel desperately wants to ask about that, but this is not the appropriate time.

Bela, he notices, is rather distant, as if unwilling to be part of the group, cool and detached and looking down on most of them. It is easy to tell that she is only here because she is out for herself, and does not care all that much about the others. He wonders whether anyone ever lets her out of their sight. She would be a candidate for an attempt to strike a deal with the angels, selling them out in the hope of being spared.

Chuck is neurotic, constantly nervous and very drunk. Becky, who seems to be involved with Chuck while at the same time grieving that Sam is taken, is incredibly enthusiastic and talks faster than he would have thought possible. Jody is a former sheriff who laughs at the memory of arresting Bobby on various occasions and makes no effort to hide the grief caused by the loss of her son and husband. He cannot say much about Lisa. She seems amiable enough, and obviously loves her son Ben, but aside from that, her manners reveal little about her personality. Ben is the only child of the group, and bears a striking resemblance to Dean, not so much in appearance as in behaviour, which sets Castiel wondering about the nature of Dean’s relationship with Lisa. Victor Henricksen used to work for the FBI and shares some stories about his former quest to hunt down the Winchester brothers, while Andy seems to be perfectly content where he is, which may or may not be due to his admitted use of marijuana.

All in all, Castiel has to admit that, while the particular collection of people is rather startling and unanticipated, he could not imagine a group better fitted for survival in exceptional situations like these. Hunters, policemen, psychics, people who knew about the supernatural before the war started... Almost all of them can handle weapons, he is sure, and contribute their share to defend themselves and each other. He wonders whether the other surviving groups are made of special people as well, or if this is merely a particular case.

Castiel is fascinated. All the same, he admonishes himself not to get attached to them. Nothing good could possibly come out of it. He cannot afford to get distracted, nor to feel affection when he knows that, sooner or later, his brothers and sisters will find them and smother their resistance to bring paradise on earth.

And that’s a good thing. This is what his father commanded, so it is right. It is just.

Isn’t it?

Yes, Castiel has always been fascinated by people’s lives on earth, seeing what they do with the time that has been given to them. In a way, he understands the appeal of it; and yet he doesn’t, just as he has never fully been able to grasp why humans would be afraid of dying. It is only reasonable to fear death for those who do not believe in Heaven, or those who know they have sinned and will go to Hell to pay for their actions. Still, he has seen devout men with faith as firm and strong as the hardest metal on earth, men who were sure they would go to Heaven, clinging to their lives in contemplation of death, refusing to let go and fighting for more time on earth.

Castiel has never been able to understand that. Earth is beautiful, but nothing down here can possibly compare with the perfection of Heaven, and people should be joyous to be granted the privilege of entering the realm of God.

Now, as he sits amongst the humans, laughing and talking and being so painfully _alive_ , he wonders whether this is the cause for their reluctance to let go. Whether, for some kind of reason, they sense that in Heaven they will be at peace, but alone. That there will be no such easy interaction, not the entire conglomerate of feelings, not like it is on earth.

Castiel doesn’t feel, and he doesn’t understand the appeal of it. It must be a good thing not to feel pain and desperation.), Choosing feeling over  complete peacefulness and serenity is senseless – unless humans enjoy it enough to want to relish every second of it before things change. Can it be right to take what they love so much away from them?

But God made it that way, so it must be good. His Father does not make mistakes and Castiel is far too insignificant and ignorant to question him. He mustn’t doubt. Not ever.

It scares him that thoughts like these even arise in his mind and he shakes them off violently. His body is shaking as well, he notices, almost absentmindedly. One day on earth and this is what is happening to him?

He hadn’t anticipated that associating with humans would be this dangerous. He presses his eyes shut, wishes that Zachariah had warned him, and fights the surge of fear that he ought not feel washing over him. He fears for himself, and he fears for Gabriel (because how, how can his brother not be lost if he has spent millennia under their influence?).

Castiel is one second away from pushing back the table with force and escape the suddenly overwhelming closeness of the room when a hand clamps down on his shoulder.

“Man, are you okay?”

Through the haze clouding his mind, he recognises Dean’s worried voice. He hadn’t even noticed him entering the kitchen.

“I... ” he clears his throat. “Yes. I’m fine.”

Dean laughs. “Dude, you’re a shitty liar. You’re white as a sheet. Seriously, go get some sleep, you look like you’re about to pass out any second.”

Obviously, Castiel is not going to pass out, and he doesn’t need sleep, but he would be a fool not to take the opportunity to get away and calm his thoughts in peace and quiet. He frowns. “Yes, I think that would be advisable.”

He takes his leave and retreats into his room, although he’d prefer to be out in the open, or at least the open field in the middle of the hideout. This way, he could watch the stars, look up to Heaven, his home, his brothers, and it would be easier for him to calm down. He cannot do this now, though. He must make the humans think that he is asleep, even if this means spending several hours staring at the walls of a too-small room that feels like it is smothering him.

 Still, he feels himself relaxing a little as soon as he is alone and not under the constant scrutiny of eyes that seem to know too much. Castiel takes a deep breath – something he knows humans do when they are upset – and prays.

_Father, Father, why are you testing me?_

Even in his mind, the words sound too full of desperation. Like broken sobs. This is not what an angel’s prayer should sound like.

An hour of silent communion later, he finally regains his self-composure. Castiel concentrates on the feeling of his wings folded against his back. _I am still an angel,_ he tells himself. _I still serve God. I always will. I will not waver. I will not fail._

Castiel shakes his head and chides himself for overreacting. In hindsight, his contemplations don’t seem to count as doubts as much as... well, maybe the increased capability to see the matter from a different point of view. He has not changed his mind concerning anything of Heaven’s plans or convictions. Looking at it rationally, it’s also perfectly understandable that he should experience some such sentiments. His grace is nearly completely suppressed. Jimmy Novak may not be in this body anymore, but of course the influence of human needs and emotions will gain strength. It’s what these cells were built for, unlike the grace that makes up his existence.

He can handle this. He will grow accustomed to the strange sensations his human vessel causes him, and it will grow easier to control, certainly it will.

His wings itch with the need to be spread out wide. He is not used to having them tucked in for longer periods. It has only been a day, but already Castiel misses the feeling of wind against them, the breeze ruffling his feathers, the exhilaration of taking flight. He wishes he could go outside and fly, but someone will surely be up and see him and he cannot risk leaving the room. Not tonight.

The room is not wide enough to uncurl them, and Castiel thinks that come the morrow they will be stiff and aching. He wonders how Gabriel copes, if he really chooses to be around humans for days, weeks, maybe even months or years. How can he go so long without flying? How can he go against his very nature?

Castiel shuffles around a little, as quietly as possible, and moves his wings as much as the restricted space allows. It’s not much, but it helps. He will have to resort to some minor exercise if he doesn’t want the ethereal muscles to weaken.

Because he has nothing better to do than wait for the morning to come, and because by now most of the humans should be asleep and unable to perceive any changes around them, Castiel slowly reaches out with his grace. Searching their minds for an updated word pool should only have positive effects, such as helping him to blend in with more ease, and gaining a better understanding of the allusions they seem to enjoy making on a frighteningly frequent basis.

Castiel pushes slowly, lets his awareness seep through the walls made of rock and earth and searches. The room next to him belongs to Ellen, the one after that to Jo, or so they have told him. Next comes the one Sam and Ruby share (and he’d really rather not look into the mind of a demon) and, at the very beginning of the corridor, Dean’s. He skips Ellen, opting for Jo as a better candidate and frowns when he cannot sense her anywhere. Her bed is empty. She is most likely on guard duty. The angels sighs and is planning to fall back on Ellen instead when he hears the muffled voices drifting through the air, making his grace and his ears perk up. Apparently a heated discussion is taking place in Dean’s quarter.

Curiosity piqued, Castiel nudges his grace just so, to surreptitiously listen in on the conversation. He’s relieved to find that Ruby is not in her and Sam’s chamber, not only because she would likely be prone to sensing a divine presence more easily than humans, but also because he doesn’t feel like having to fight his instincts at this particular moment.

“... telling you, there’s something wrong with him!” It’s Pamela’s voice, easy to recognise even though it sounds different with the raised volume and the angry tone.

“Yeah, I heard you the first two times, Pam,” Dean says, veering between annoyance and sincerity. “But would you care to elaborate and tell me exactly what’s off about him?”

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“You’ll just have to trust me on this, Dean. I have a bad feeling about him,” Pamela insists fiercely.

“So what, you expect me to put a bullet in his brain because you don’t like him?” Dean is definitely angry now.

“Guys, calm down, okay?” Sam cuts in. “Look, Pam... I get it, the guy’s a little....um... _intense_ , but that doesn’t warrant-“

“It’s more than just that, Sam,” she interrupts. “I can’t read his thoughts, I can’t perceive any of his feelings, I don’t even get a glimpse of any of that.”

“So your psychic powers are failing you when it comes to Cas and you’re freaking out about it, is that what you’re saying?” Dean asks, and Castiel is sure he’s frowning, just as he is sure that Pamela would be rolling her eyes if she still had any.

“I’m saying that he blocks me out.”

“Maybe he’s got a protective spell for that one, too. God knows the angels have tried to get into our heads often enough. If he’s got sigils to avert angel attention up his sleeve, who says he doesn’t carry more of those?”

“Or maybe he’s just not completely human.”

Castiel draws in a sharp breath. In the silence that follows Pamela’s outburst he can hear his own heart – Jimmy Novak’s heart – beating.

“Loki, you can feel it too, can’t you? You’ve hardly taken your eyes off him.”

This is not good. Loki has indeed been suspicious of him all along. If he and Pamela persuade Dean to distrust him, he might face serious troubles. They can’t hurt him, of course, but it will complicate his mission to an extent that he doesn’t want to have to deal with.

Surprisingly, Loki huffs in a good-natured manner. “If he is, then who am I to say anything?” he snorts. “I’m definitely in no position to judge. Hell, no one of us is. Look around you, Pam – or, well, maybe not, but you know what I mean. We’re not exactly poster boys of normalcy around here. And you can’t blame the guy for not telling us immediately.”

“Pam, what do you think he is?” Sam inquires calmly. “He passed all protection we have. Salt lines, devil’s traps, holy water in his drink, silver cutlery...”

In retrospect, Castiel should have expected them to do a complete check, albeit clandestinely. They are hunters, after all. It is a good thing they seem to not yet have discovered a way of confirming if someone is an angel.

“Nothing I’ve ever seen.”

“Loki?” Bobby gruffs. “You got any idea what we’re dealing with?”

“Not a clue.” Castiel can hear the rustling of his clothes as he shrugs.

“Look, guys,” Dean speaks up again, “yeah, the dude is a bit of an oddball. I get it. But I think you really are a bit quick with your sentence here. I mean, look at him, he’s scrawny as hell, and he probably doesn’t even know how to throw a punch or drink a shot of tequila without ending up completely shit-faced. And he helped us with that protective spell thingy.”

“We can’t be sure that’s working,” Pam throws in.

“Actually, Sammy and Ash and I had a look at it. Loki, too. Looks good. Should work, too. In fact,” Bobby adds, “I think I’ve seen it before, it just hadn’t occurred to me it could work on the god squad.”

“Point is, I don’t think the guy’s dangerous,” Dean sums up. “Or can you sense any evil vibes around him?”

Pamela hesitates before answering. “No.”

“And if he should turn out to be, he’s nothing I can’t take on,” Loki boasts. “I’ll keep a sharp eye on him, if that’ll make you feel better, sweetie. Now, can we break this up? My idea of a pleasant night really doesn’t involve being crammed up in your room, Deano. I’d prefer to have some... other fun.”

“I swear, if you conjure up illusions of busty women again and bang them so loud I can hear you through five walls, I will find a stake and shove it up your ass before driving it through your heart,” Bobby grinds out.

“You’re just jealous.”

“Guys, shut it, I want to keep my sanity. Loki, if anyone has to complain about your shenanigans once more, I will kick you out,” Dean threatens. “Now get out of my room, I actually need to sleep.”

Castiel sighs as he hears the door to Dean’s room open and the shuffling of footsteps as the party splits up. This conversation could have had a worse outcome. At least he knows that he will be thrice as careful whenever he is in Loki’s company now. He will double his efforts.

He is just about to draw back his grace in order to not alert Sam in any way once he enters his room when he realises Sam has not yet left his brother’s room.

“Dean... can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

Sam sighs. “You know what I mean. You defending Cas.”

“Well, what did you expect me to do? Blow his brains out because Pam is PMSing?” Dean sounds exasperated.

“Dude, you _always_ trust Pam’s judgement. I mean, I’m not saying you throw people out or take them in solely based on her opinion, but you usually listen to what she has to say. And when she says ‘I don’t trust this guy’, then you normally don’t trust him either. You’re surprisingly calm about this whole ‘maybe he’s not human’ thing, too. I would’ve expected you to get the guns out at once. So what’s different this time?”

“Really, Sammy? Does this guy look scary to you? And he helped us, so I gotta give him a little credit for that, right?”

There’s a long silence. “Are you sure there isn’t more to it? When someone tells you they don’t plan to stay here, your reaction’s usually quite different.”

“What the hell are you implying, Sam?” Dean asks sharply.

“I’m not implying anything, Dean. I just want to know. When he told you he wanted to leave eventually, what did he say? What made you trust him?”

“I don’t _trust_ him.”

Sam snorts softly. “Yeah, well, you trust him a hell of a lot more than you trust any other stranger who ever came along.”

“I just can relate, okay?” Dean shifts. “He’s looking for his brother.”

“His brother?” Sam repeats, sounding mildly surprised.

“Yeah. He’s convinced that he’s out here somewhere. And he wants to find him.”

Another silence follows his words, in which Sam surely contemplates this new information. “Well,” he says in the end, “I get why you want to help him, then.” His comment is pensive but not unkind. The mattress squeaks quietly when he gets up. “Anyway, he’ll be on high supervision for the next weeks anyway, and with Loki being extra observant, he shouldn’t be able to do any damage even if he turns out to be a threat.”

“I know how to do my job, Sammy.”

“I know,” Sam says softly. “I’ve always trusted your judgment, and I trust you now.”

“Thanks.”

“Nothing to thank me for. Get some sleep, Dean, you’re running yourself ragged again.”

He steps out and closes the door behind himself, and Castiel hastily pulls his grace back, hiding it again. The mind reading, he thinks, might have to wait, and so he is left to sit in the darkness until the first light of dawn turns the sky a light grey and then a deep red, silently praying to God to give him strength to complete his task.

∞

The hours until the break of dawn pass slowly, but Castiel is grateful for it, despite the uncomfortable sensation of being trapped. It gives him time to ponder strategies, lay out a plan for his future behaviour around the humans, especially Pamela and Loki. If Loki is human at all, that is. The name is so unusual it had caught his attention at once, but after listening in on the conversation, Castiel can’t help but feel like his initial suspicions are being substantiated more and more. Obviously, he wouldn’t be the only supernatural creature living in this hideout, should he turn out to actually be the Scandinavian demigod that Castiel knows to bear that name. He cannot for the world wrap his head around the idea that hunters would be comfortable living and working with a creature they would usually feel compelled to kill, but then again, he has clearly underestimated humanity. The more he thinks about it, the less it appears to be a far-fetched thought. Tricksters, demigods, are powerful creatures: not as powerful as angels, mind you, but strong enough to make a worthy ally in times of chaos, need and destruction. The raging war has threatened the pagan gods just as much as it has threatened the humans and it has given them a common enemy. Castiel knows that gods have died in great numbers, because their struggle, while more effective than the humans’ resistance, didn’t help them in the slightest. He’d like to know how many other gods are still out there and now affiliated with the ones who used to worship them.

He makes a plan to ask someone about Loki’s identity as soon as an appropriate moment comes up, although there is not much doubt in his mind.

When the dawn finally breaks, Castiel stands up from the edge of the mattress, removes the slightly rumpled suit he is still wearing, folds it meticulously and picks up the change of clothing Jo left the previous day. Men’s need to change their attire every day or so seems silly in the eyes of someone who can clean both himself and his clothes with a simple thought, but since he is determined to forego his angelic powers as much as possible for the duration of his stay, conforming to their standards is unavoidable. He makes all the dust and sweat vanish for one last time and then pulls on the pants. The dark blue denim feels rough and coarse on his skin. The t-shirt they laid out for him is better, falling loosely around his torso, oddly comfortable despite being  a little too large for Jimmy Novak’s rather scrawny frame. It’s also, he muses, much better suited for the temperature of summer days in the heart of the American southwest.  

He is putting on his shoes again when he hears the resolute knock on the door, accompanied with a sudden flare of music that makes him jump. “Rise and shine, chucklehead!” Loki booms, and chuckles as if sharing a private joke with himself. “Time’s a-wasting.”

Castiel tenses for a moment, and then forces himself to look unimpressed, and pulls the door open to find Loki doubling over from laughter at the malicious glare Sam sends him from the far end of the corridor.

“You use that song again, _ever_ , I swear I’m coming after you,” Sam threatens, and Castiel is surprised by the amount of anger in his voice. He would have pegged the younger Winchester for the irenic one, but obviously there is more to him than Castiel has seen so far.

“You can’t,” Loki grins. “Remember, you swore not to.”

“You heard me, Loki. Turn it off. Now!”

“But it’s _Tuesday_ ,” Loki whines dramatically, as if that explains everything, but upon seeing Sam take a step towards him, he sighs and complies, and with a snap of his fingers, the music stops. “Happy now?”

Sam doesn’t dignify this with an answer, and Loki rolls his eyes and turns around to whisper conspiratorially into Castiel’s ear. “Guy can’t take a joke. Such superbores he and his bro are, I can tell you.”

Castiel blinks, taken aback by the easy familiarity Loki displays. It’s likely only a deception to make Castiel feel comfortable, possibly make him slip up, so he weighs his words carefully. “Maybe they simply do not share your kind of humour,” he suggests matter-of-factly. “I hear this happens rather easily.”

He doesn’t mean to imply anything, but apparently Loki applies his words to his entire species. “What, because I’m a trickster?” he says, dropping the punch line as if there was nothing to it. “Nah, Dean thinks I’m hilarious, he’s just a pussy when the joke is on him or Sammy.”

Castiel stops in his tracks, taken aback by the lack of apprehensiveness Loki has in revealing what he is. “You really are _the_ Loki, then. I had wondered.”

“Oh, please, please, keep the awe and adoration to a minimum,” Loki says, waving his hand dismissively. “You may call me ‘The Master of Illusion’ up to twelve times an hour, though.”

Castiel blinks again. “Why would I want to do that?” he asks, bewildered.

For a moment, the smaller man looks at him like he has lost his mind, and then makes a noise that sounds as if he couldn’t decide whether to snort or sigh. “Dude, you seriously need to work on your sarcasm detection skills.” 

“I have been told that I do not excel in this particular area,” he concedes.

 “... and you honestly need to get that stick removed from your ass ASAP.”

“I don’t have a-“ Castiel begins, confused, and then stops himself from finishing his sentence when he realises the utterance was not meant literally.

Loki shakes his head in disbelief and beckons him to follow. “Scratch that, you desperately need to work on your people skills, period.”

There is nothing Castiel can say to that, because expressing his agreement would be redundant as they both know he has hit the mark with that one. Therefore, the angel decides to satisfy his curiosity. “How does a Norse god end up here?”

“Here as in The United States or here and in these caves?”

“... Both, I suppose.”

Loki shrugs. “One, the States are way more fun than Scandinavia was - I still cry over the loss of the Spearmint Rhino. Or rather, they were, before the angels went berserk. Which conveniently brings us directly to the answer to your second question.” A bitter smile plays around the corner of his lips, and for a moment, he looks almost too serious, but the blink of an eye later, the expression is gone and his usual smirk is in place. “And the Winchesters and I go way back.”

“They fought you,” Castiel deduces.

“They fucking _staked_ me,” Loki corrects as he opens the kitchen door, and thanks to not even attempting to keep his voice down, immediately attracts everyone’s attention.

“Ah, yeah, good times,” Dean says, sounding entirely too smug and self-satisfied, and takes a sip of coffee.

“Good times,” Loki agrees and flops down on the next bench rather gracelessly. “But it wasn’t very nice of you. Especially after I made that peace offering.”

“I can’t remember you being very nice,” Sam remarks pointedly.

“Ah, Sammy-kins, you wound me.”

“Dude, cut the lofty speeches, and Sammy, keep your facial muscles under control. It’s far too early for me to deal with either of you pulling each other’s pigtails.” Dean pinches the brink of his nose. “And just for the record, Sam, you aren’t the one who gets to complain. I’m the one he killed a hundred times.”

“A hundred and five,” Loki specifies, munching on a candy bar that has appeared out of nowhere. “And it was hilarious. Personally, I have to say the piano was one of my favourites.”

“And I was the one who had to watch you die,” Sam hisses.  “You don’t even remember any of it, and I am also the one who’s always at the receiving end of his pranks, not you, so yes, I definitely am the one who gets to hate his guts.”

“Aww,” Loki clutches his heart theatrically, “you love me and you know it.”

“We kind of need you, there’s a difference,” Dean deadpans, twisting his body around and reaching for a list Chuck is pushing towards him. “Speaking of which...” he gives the paper a quick once-over, nods and hands it over to the trickster, who groans in exasperation.

“Seriously, Chuck, do you have a deep, fulfilling relationship with toilet paper or something?”

Chuck looks indignant. “It’s not my fault it’s always used up in no time, and it’s definitely not my fault that you forget to bring it on purpose most of the time!”

The demigod rolls his eyes. “ _Fine_.  I’ll bring a whole pallet this time. Who’s coming on the raid with me?”

Castiel frowns. “You’re going outside?”

“Yup,” Dean nods. “We have to get out supplies from somewhere. Should be even easier now with these new spells.”

“I’m coming.” Jo finishes up her coffee, and Adam raises his hand as well.

“Me, too.”

Loki snaps his fingers, and they vanish into thin air. Castiel jerks in surprise.

“Ah, sorry, man, I didn’t think this would freak you out now that you know about him,” Dean says, sounding almost apologetic. “You’ll get used to it.”

Castiel frowns and shakes his head. “I was... unaware that he could do this.” It shouldn’t be possible. Not to his knowledge, at least, but he hasn’t run into a pagan god in a long time. Also, angels haven’t been exactly all too interested in the affairs of any god who is not their father, and it is impossible to judge whether their assessment of the pagan gods’ strength is accurate.

“He keeps surprising us, too,” Ellen confesses with a little smile. “To be honest, a lot of things wouldn’t be running as smoothly here if it weren’t for him, but don’t tell him that. He’s full enough of himself as it is.”

“I won’t,” Castiel assures her with as much sincerity as he can muster.

“I’m surprised he spilled the beans,” Anna comments from the stove. “We all know he likes boasting and showing off his super powers, but I can’t remember a single time when he went ahead informing the new guys about them.” She turns around for long enough to give Castiel a dubious look over the rim of her mug.

“I believe it was his way of subtly reminding me of the rules established for this community, and threatening me with the consequences should I infringe any of said rules.”

The uncomfortable, almost abashed silence filling the room would be enough to confirm his suspicions even if it hadn’t been for the conversation he overheard. He doesn’t miss the quick look Sam and Dean share, or the subtle shrug that Dean gives. No one bothers to confirm or deny his hypothesis, or to apologise for Loki’s behaviour, or to vindicate their practice. Castiel doesn’t mind. Being indirectly threatened by a trickster isn’t any more shocking than the revelation that Dean would have shot him immediately upon their first meeting had there been any indications of angelic activity nearby, and would still do it if he tried to run at this point. Neither is a legitimate threat for him, and the general situation warrants their modus operandi.

The silence stretches on until Sam clears his throat. “So, Cas, are you up to helping me with a little research on angel-averting stuff today?”

He nods. “Of course.”  He has anticipated this request, and although he might have preferred to work alone, to enjoy the silence and make it easier for him to pretend he doesn’t already know a dozen sigils that could help them that he isn’t allowed to tell them about, he also finds himself pleased at being presented the opportunity to study Sam Winchester more closely. He is an interesting subject, and amiable enough to make Castiel feel like he can practise his conversation skills without having to worry too much. He seems like he would be a person to forgive minor slip-ups in the appropriateness of statements. 

So Sam leaves to retrieve Bobby’s precious books and angel lore, and the rest of the group one by one wander off to do whatever it is they do to keep themselves busy and make themselves useful around here. Pamela doesn’t leave until Sam returns. She is clearly not happy about that particular arrangement, but apparently it is important that Castiel have a personal guard, as if a blind woman would be a lot of good trying to stop him.

Sam drops two armfuls of weighty tomes on the table and sighs contentedly as he stretches his limbs.

“Dean said you were from a religious family?” he asks casually while they both examine the books a little closer.

The collection is impressive: not a few of the books date earlier than the invention of printing, and still the majority of them are in a good repair. Castiel knows that many human books of angel lore exist, but good ones are rare. Of course, even the good ones tend to confuse several major issues: not much is known about angels on earth that was actually passed on by Heaven, and most of the information has been made up by drunkards, or monks, or drunken monks, just as the original Bible has been mangled over time. Sometimes, though, people actually remembered their scarce encounters with angels well enough to make justified assumptions and gather valuable data. From what he can evaluate from the first glance, Bobby’s compilation is priceless. Castiel feels almost excited.

“Yes,” Castiel affirms, looking up only just long enough to see a mixture of genuine curiosity and mild wariness on Sam’s face. It makes him wonder whether the man will try to coax information out of him in a more subtle manner than Dean would be capable of. He turns his attention back to the books, choosing the oldest one and flips it open carefully. “It was where I learned how to read and write Enochian. Where did you learn it?”

It’s not that he needs this knowledge, but he is curious as well, and he has been told that small-talk and casual conversations increase the level of comfort for humans. Some angels are similar, he muses, constantly talking or singing just to assure themselves of the closeness to their brothers. Castiel has always preferred silence over talking, but he needs Sam to warm up to him.

“Honestly?” Sam huffs out a laugh and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’m not all that good at it. What I know is whatever I could gather from these books. Ash’s better at it, because he’s a little genius with a monster IQ and doesn’t forget that stuff as quickly as I do, but even he’s at a loss most times. Mostly, we’re just picking things up along the way. Learning by doing, so to say. Maybe I should get you to teach me.”

Castiel allows himself to smile. “If there is still time for me to do so after we have found what we need in this book, it would be my pleasure.”

“Yeah, Dean mentioned you wanted to leave.”

He nods.

“He said something about... searching for your brother?” Sam prods again, gentle but unrelenting.

Castiel sighs inwardly, and nods again. “Finding him is the only thing that matters to me,” he adds for good measure. “I know he is still alive. Gabriel is... quite adept when it comes to finding creative ways to avoid danger and look after himself. But in these times, you shouldn’t be separated from your family. He’s the only one here on earth-“ he breaks off hastily once he realises this may sound wrong, but Sam’s earnestly sympathetic look assures him that the human has only made the most obvious deduction and most likely (and well-foundedly) assumes that the rest of his family is dead. “I _need_ to find him. He is the only thing I have left down here.”

He hopes that he hasn’t overdone it, but Sam’s eyes soften just the way Dean’s did, and that’s how he knows that Sam doesn’t love his brother any less than the other way around. “Yeah, I know.” He clears his throat. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It’s alright,” Castiel replies, surprised that he would feel the need to apologise at all. “It’s not a secret.”

“For what it’s worth, I really hope you find him.”

“Thank you.”

Sam leans over his books and smiles wistfully. “You know, a couple of years ago I would’ve said I’d pray for you. Now... ”

It’s enough to make Castiel look up. “You’ve lost your faith,” he observes, making Sam laugh bitterly.

“Obviously. I’m not sure how anyone could maintain their belief in God when the world is being brought to an end by his favourite pets.” He pauses, then frowns. “You don’t, uh, still believe in God, do you?” he asks, clearly fearing he has put his foot in his mouth, despite his just as apparent conviction that no one could still be religious.

“God has planned and predicted the apocalypse,” Castiel points out. “But... ” he trails off again, unsure of whether he should continue. He has never voiced his concerns or doubts, not ever, he hasn’t even allowed himself to think about it too much. But being on earth just illustrates how... _wrong_ this is. It is not the apocalypse that He had announced centuries ago would come. His brothers do not follow God’s original plan, and while he doesn’t doubt their sincerity, he cannot help but wonder why.

The words spill out of his mouth before he can hold himself back. “I wonder, sometimes. If this is really God’s plan.” He shakes his head. “This is not the end of the world how it was supposed to be. No horsemen, no trumpets, no war against Lucifer.”

Sam looks at him thoughtfully. “You don’t think God is giving the orders,” he realises. “You think the angels are acting on their own account.”

Before Sam had said it out loud, Castiel had never comprehended that yes, this is exactly what he is fearing, deep inside, so much that he doesn’t dare to consider it. It is a horrible thought, that his brothers would act against God’s will. Unthinkable. Surely it’s only his sentimentality for humans that is clouding his judgment. How dare he doubt his brothers?

But he does. He has for a while now, he has just never admitted it. The realisation hits him hard, and for a moment, Castiel forgets how to breathe.

“It is possible,” he whispers, shocked that the words actually leave his mouth. That the impact of his doubts, of this unforgiveable crime against God and Heaven, doesn’t cost him his grace immediately. “The apocalypse was supposed to bring paradise on earth. To defy all evil, and create a new world without pain, or sickness, or death.” He shakes his head. “I only see destruction here.”

There’s a snort coming from his left, and when he looks up, Dean is leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t know which theory is worse, but in the end, I guess it’s all the same. Either he’s up there giving shitty orders, or he’s somewhere not giving a rat’s ass about any of us, not caring enough to step in.”  

Anger, unexpected and burning too hot, bubbles up inside him, but he knows better than to show it too openly. He thinks Dean catches a glimpse of it before he pulls himself together, and he _definitely_ noticed the sudden gust of wind when Castiel’s wings inadvertently flare, and he raises his eyebrows in surprise and looks behind him, as if suspecting the phenomenon was entirely natural. When Castiel finally trusts his voice enough to speak without it quivering with rightful ire, he merely says, quietly, “Maybe he doesn’t think this world deserves a future.”

“Well then he’s wrong,” Dean retorts with so much conviction it is impossible not to hang on his lips. “He’s blind, or stupid, or whatever. Maybe both. There was a lot of shit in this world before the angels came, I admit that, but it was still worth saving. It’s always worth saving. And if God thinks this is the best way to bring paradise, then he can shove it up his ass. We don’t even want his fucking paradise.”

He stalks over to grab something from behind the bar counter. Under the table, Castiel clenches and unclenches his fist, trying to control his anger. At the same time, he cannot help but admire Dean’s certainty, his conviction. His unwavering belief in humanity.

Maybe this is why God loves the humans best. Because they never give up. It is unfair, Castiel thinks, considering how they defy him over and over again while the angels give everything for him, but this is what they were made to be.

“You would choose freedom over peace?” Castiel asks, still somewhat incredulous. Still, he tells himself he shouldn’t be surprised. If the humans thought God’s plan was just, if they agreed with it, if they had prayed for paradise, then they wouldn’t be trying to find a way to fight Heaven.

“Damn straight I would,” Dean says. “Free will is the only thing I’ve ever had, and I’m not gonna let some divine son of a bitch take that away from me.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to this. Dean has a point: free will was the ultimate gift of God to humanity, and bringing paradise to earth – either the way it was predicted or the way the angels are trying to do it now – will take that away from them again. It’s curious, though: he would never have imagined that anyone would value their freedom to choose so much that they would prefer death and pain over the bliss of the Heavenly realm.

Humans certainly are the most unpredictable creatures. He stares at Dean with increased fascination, and Dean stares right back. His look has something challenging, cocky, as if he is daring Castiel to contradict.

He doesn’t.

Sam breaks the silence with an amused snort. “Wow, Dean, have you been practicing your motivational speeches?”

Dean shoots him a not-so-angry glare. “Shut up, bitch, I did no such thing.”

“Yeah, right, jerk,” counters quick as a shot. The two seem to be on the verge of a good-humoured but interminable crosstalk (it’s like they _enjoy_ throwing tongue-in-cheek insults at each other – why, Castiel will never know), but before they can get started, Bobby appears to yank Dean away by his collar, muttering something about idjits and work that has to be done. Sam finds this incredibly amusing and grins for another five minutes after Dean has disappeared.

They work mostly in silence, immersed in their reading. It’s unexpectedly comfortable, sitting in this secluded spot with Sam across from him while the air is filled with the sound of their calm breathing and the rustling of paper. They take their time working through the pages – Sam because he doesn’t understand all Enochian words at once, and Castiel because he can (and must, if he doesn’t want to let on about his supreme knowledge of the language) – and with time, Castiel allows himself to relax a little more. Sam occasionally breaks the silence by asking Castiel for his advice on several complicated sigils or telling short, amusing and irrelevant stories of his time as a hunter before the angelic war whenever he finds a reference to something in a book that triggers a certain memory. Castiel finds himself enjoying it. The angel lore is surprisingly elaborate, and the humans’ view of his kind is extremely intriguing. He doesn’t find any sigils that would, as Sam calls it, “help them fly under angel radar” or “angel-proof the hideout”, for which he is grateful; at least he won’t have to lie to them entirely when they ask whether the books contain anything helpful.

He barely notices the time passing. People come back in for lunch and leave just as quickly. Loki, Jo and Adam are there, too, so their little raid seems to have been successful. In the afternoon, Rufus, Jodie and Ellen return carrying a small deer – the yield of their hunt, it would seem. Before he knows it, the day is over, and everyone gathers for dinner.

Castiel doesn’t have physical needs like the others, but he figures the rebels will find it strange if he never uses the facilities, so after the meal he lets them give him a towel and heads down the corridor that will lead him to the shower and is surprised when he actually finds a full-functioning, high-tech shower that could have just as well belonged to the house of a rich businessman. Courtesy of Loki, he assumes.

Outside, the air is still pleasantly warm, but even so, his curiosity prompts him to try a hot shower. From watching people he knows that they relish them very much, and the warm liquid running down his shoulders, rolling off his skin, experienced only with human senses, is almost like pure bliss. He closes his eyes and just stands under the spray for several minutes, and finds that he understands the appeal now. It is indeed much easier to understand people by living like them, and with them; yet even so he feels like they still are, and always will be, a mystery to him. He turns the shower off when he hears someone coming down the tunnel, half-heartedly dries himself off and slips back into his clothes.

He doesn’t spot anyone upon stepping out of the bathroom, but he senses Loki’s presence. Castiel pretends he doesn’t notice him, although it is easy to distinguish him from the humans, just as he can single out Ruby from a great distance, even with his grace tamped down. Now that he thinks about it, he should have realised from the beginning that Loki is not human. He doesn’t have a soul: his essence is of a kind that Castiel has never seen before. He has never bothered to familiarise himself with the sensation of the cores of pagan gods – with his grace at his disposal, it had never been an issue. He could detect them at first sight. Now, he merely senses a faint otherness, something he cannot quite place. It puzzles him momentarily, because he thinks that the grace inside him should at least recall the feeling of a demigod’s presence, but he shrugs it off. Of course he cannot fully rely on his grace now. That is the perfectly reasonable explanation.

The following four days are rather uneventful. He slips into a routine, working his way around the people in the camp with an ease that almost frightens him. He gets up early, has breakfast, works with Sam on Bobby’s books, has lunch, reads some more, has dinner, takes a shower, retreats to his room to contemplate the events of the day, and prays to his Father for guidance and help in finding and rescuing his brother. He doesn’t see much of most of the group outside of meal times: Dean insists they make themselves useful. They take care of minor repairs, patrol and guard the tunnel system, work on anything that could help increase their security level and living standards. Everyone knows exactly when and how he has to do what, and the days run smoothly. Even so, he can tell that below the air of unconcern they are always vigilant. Almost as if they expect to be ferreted out and struck down any minute. The entrances are all constantly under guard, and every couple of hours someone secures the perimeter. There’s no movement within a two mile radius that they aren’t aware of.

He grows fond of Ellen, who spends a great deal of the day in the kitchen. Since she is the one who once owned a bar, the role of head chef has fallen to her. On the fourth night, she keeps her promise to challenge him to drink-off, telling him that if he wakes up with a headache on Sunday, it doesn’t matter, because Sunday is still being honoured as a free day and no one will wake him up early. He surprises everyone by downing seven shots before saying, calmly, “I think I’m starting to feel something.” Jo laughs at her mother for being drunk under the table by the new guy. It earns him a couple of appreciatory claps on his shoulder, which make him smile although he doesn’t quite understand why he deserves them, considering that this is no great achievement. He likes the alcohol, despite his grace burning strong enough inside him to disable the greatest part of its effect.

Slowly but surely, he begins to feel more comfortable in his vessel and his surroundings, daring to engage in conversations more often. He has looked inside Jo’s head while she was sleeping to catch up on recent vocabulary. It doesn’t help him understand all of the references Dean and several others like to make, but it does make him more confident that he can succeed in gaining their trust and, at some point, completing his task. The majority of the rebels still see him as the socially awkward new guy; but as the days go on, his presence seems to become more natural.

Jo is the one who makes the biggest effort to befriend him, and he cannot help but like her. Truth be told, he finds himself liking almost everyone, aside from Pamela (mostly because she still keeps her distance and he is unable to assess her character), Bela (who also does not seem to be very interested in growing attached to anyone and displays a strong selfish streak that displeases him), and Becky, who really is a nice girl but often scares him with her enthusiasm. Shockingly, once he manages to fully suppress the urges to smite Ruby every time the demon comes near him, he discovers that he develops a certain level of respect for her. Maybe it’s the fact that she is still so very _human_ , as if her soul wasn’t something twisted and dark raging inside her, or that he finds out that she isn’t actually possessing anybody, but instead inhabiting the body of a young woman whose soul has long since ascended to Heaven.

The other persons frequently lounging around in the kitchen are Loki and, surprisingly, Dean. Loki is obviously sticking to his promise to keep an eye on Castiel, although he claims that he simply has the right to opt out of strenuous physical work because he already does enough for them, and that the best and most comfortable place the spend the day is the kitchen thanks to Ellen’s habit of keeping both alcohol and sweets there. Dean drops by several times a day, allegedly to “check that everything is running smoothly”. Castiel thinks the truth is that he doesn’t quite trust Loki and Sam not trying to throttle each other when he isn’t there to get between them. Possibly also to steal a beer from Ellen and use the five minutes it takes him to empty the bottle to chat with Castiel. They don’t talk about God anymore, which is probably very wise.

On the fifth day, Dean is sitting on the bench next to his brother, Loki is slouching in the far corner,sucking noisily on a lollipop, and Sam and Castiel are enjoying a little break Ash strolls in carrying a chunk of metal and a satisfied grin, followed closely by Anna, who just looks excited.

“We did it!” she announces.

Castiel, naturally, is the only one who doesn’t know what ‘it’ is.

“Angel radio code cracked,” Ash adds smugly, plops himself down next to Dean and pushes the electronic device towards him.

Castiel freezes. _Oh_ , he thinks. He had forgotten about Ash’s project. How could he have forgotten about it? Granted, the idea that a lowly human could develop a device to track down his brothers and tap into the conversations of the Heavenly Host had sounded ludicrous at the time. Something that they could never possibly achieve. On the other hand, no one had thought it would be possible for some humans to escape their fate for as long as they have done.

He really should know better than to underestimate them. His mind has been so preoccupied with Gabriel and avoiding being found out that he has completely ignored what else is going on around him. Looking back at the last couple of days, Castiel realises that he has almost let himself forget that the humans are his enemies.

“Really?” Ash has Sam and Dean’s full attention now, as well as Loki’s, whose eyes narrow in concentration. Naturally. The men look just as excited as Anna, as if they had just reached an important milestone or won a significant victory. Which, he supposes, if what Ash says is true, might just be the case.

“Yup.” Ash snags Dean’s beer from under his nose – and the circumstance that Dean doesn’t even think to protest is speaking volumes – glances at Castiel and then, when no one opposes his presence, just shrugs and pushes some buttons. A second later, his brothers’ voices fill the room, and Castiel sits startled, shocked, unable to move. A pang of longing shoots through his grace. His brothers are always with him. Even now that he has suppressed his grace they are there, a quiet but steady murmur in the back of his head that reminds him of their presence and of who he is. He is used to being so much closer to them, though, and for the past few days he hasn’t actually been able to understand what they are saying: their voices have been muffled, too far in the distance for him to perceive. Now he hears them clearly. He recognises the voices of Haniel and Rizoel, who are flying over the Grand Canyon and contemplating God’s greatness. Uriel and Nathanael are discussing past battles, the city purges they have carried out. Chamuel, Iofiel and Israfel are singing, their high notes reverberating across the skies. Balthazarmakes a snide comment to Rachel, as he always does, just to get a rise out of her.

In this moment, he misses them so much he can barely stand it. He has never been the most sociable of angels, but he has never been truly separated from them either.

The others are frozen too, but for different reasons. It takes about two seconds until all but Loki and Anna grimace in pain. Dean groans. “Shut it off!” Of course, for people who are not vessels, angelic voices are overwhelming, painful even. The only thing they hear is a screeching sound that hurts their delicate hearing.  

“And you can listen to that? And understand what they’re saying?” Sam asks, crunching up his nose.

Anna nods frantically. “Yes. Look, I’ve been making a transcript of everything they’ve said so far,” she says, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and handing it to Dean. “There wasn’t much useful so far, really, but I’ll keep on listening. And Ash’s recording everything. I admit it’s a bit confusing at times because there are just so many of them talking at the same time, but with a bit of practice it should get easier to tell them apart.”

“And here’s the coolest thing,” Ash chimes in and types in several codes. A map of planet earth pops up on the screen, covered with little black crosses. “Some of the satellites up there are still working, it seems, and they register the disturbances that angels cause whenever they hit the ground and all that shebang. I’ve programmed the software so that it translates these data and marks the spots where they touch down.”

“In other words, we know where they are and when they are there, and, with Anna’s help, what they want there,” Dean sums up.

Ash nods. “Exactly.”

Dean makes a vague noise of approval and respect. “Any chance of turning that tracking system into a warning one?”

“You mean, like, tracking them during their flight and making an alarm go off whenever they seem to all be gathering in one place?”

Dean nods.

Ash cocks his head in contemplation, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Give me a couple of days.”

Sam grins. “Ash,” he says, without preamble, “you rock.”

Ash smirks. “I _know_.” He sounds so smug that that it would make Castiel smile, if worry wasn’t turning his insides to ice.

It’s only early afternoon, but Dean gives out orders to call it a day and tells everyone to gather for a little celebration. Castiel doesn’t think he can stand being around them now that his brothers might be in danger, doesn’t believe he can mask his emotions and pretend he is happy for them and their achievements. He feigns a headache and excuses himself to retreat to his chamber. There he sits and ponders his options, staring at the walls for hours, unmoving, until the sounds of laughter and exultation have died down and the rebels have gone to sleep.

He will have to inform Zachariah about these new developments. If the humans can listen in on their conversations and overhear their battle strategies, this poses a serious risk to all of them. His brothers will have to find another way of communicating with one another, or at least find a method to shield their words, to shut Anna out, or be extra careful. But how can he warn his superiors without Anna noticing, now that they have a way of recording every word transmitted by him and his kind? How is it even possible for her to understand the language of his brethren? Was she supposed to be a vessel that she can listen to the voices of the Host without being hurt? He has more questions than he has answers.

Castiel suddenly becomes aware that he is gnawing on his lower lip and instantly forces himself to stop. It is terrifyingly easy to let his vessel’s human instincts take over when he is not fully concentrating on what he is doing. It makes him feel out of control, like he is changing and there is nothing he can do to stop it.

He has never experienced anything similar before, and the shiver that runs down his back ripples through his grace as well.

His wings are itching with the need to be spread out, to take flight, more desperately than ever, and Castiel finds that he can no longer stand the confinement of his room. The sensation is so overwhelming that it is almost painful, like a slow, icy flame creeping up his wings from the tips to the joints, consuming them completely, and he stumbles to his feet with a jolt and flings the door open to escape the walls that are closing down on him. It’s probably unwise to go outside in the middle of the night, when he is supposed to be sleeping, but he cannot bring himself to care about the risk of raising suspicions again. Whoever is on guard will most likely see him, yes, but what of it?

As soon as he reaches the centre of the complex and can look up at the clear night sky, see the stars blinking in the distance and breathe in the fresh air, Castiel calms down considerably. Finally he has enough space the stretch his wings, so he carefully unfurls them and just stands still, with his eyes closed, savouring the gentle caress of the wind brushing against his feathers. He can almost pretend that he is flying again, high above the clouds, from one end of creation to another in utter freedom. His vessel’s heartbeat, beating too fast in agitation and distress, begins to slow. Gradually the terror seeps out of his body and he manages to clear his head and gather his thoughts. It is easier to remember who he is like this.

_I am an angel of the Lord. I serve Him, who is the Beginning and the End of everything. I am not losing myself. I am an angel of the Lord. I am not losing myself. I am not._

_ _

The wind carries the crunching sound of earth and stone beneath heavy soles to his ears, and Castiel’s eyes snap open. When he turns around, he sees Dean approaching from the passage leading to the kitchen, beer in hand. The man doesn’t look surprised to see him.

“Can’t sleep?” is all he asks.

Castiel nods wordlessly.

Dean nods. “Yeah, me neither.”  

Castiel blinks in surprise. “This was a good day for you,” he ventures cautiously, failing to see why the events would keep Dean up. Or, to be more specific, the only reason he can imagine for Dean still being awake when not on guard duty would be that he is unable to sleep due to excitement, but Dean doesn’t look like he is walking around in a triumphant haze. He is wearing what he calls his poker face, not giving away what he is thinking. Still, under this careful mask of indifference, there is something else. The fine lines around his mouth, the curve of his shoulders, speak of bone-deep fatigue and grief, chiselled into his soul to form a mark that he will never be able to rid himself of completely. His eyes, though, flicker with something else entirely: an underlying anger and quiet determination.

Dean snorts softly at his comment, his eyes darting over Castiel’s face and away again, to stare into the distance. “Yeah,” he agrees and raises the bottle to his lips. He takes a sip and then, without any comment, offers it to Castiel. Castiel doesn’t particularly like the taste of beer, but he takes it anyway. He has heard that sharing a drink is something almost intimate for humans, something that indicates friendship, a certain level of trust and affection. This gesture, coming from Dean, is unexpected to say the least, but he takes it as a good sign. 

Dean is looking at him expectantly, so Castiel takes a sip and then, with a small smile, hands the beverage back to Dean. “I am certain you will sleep more calmly from now on. Ash’s technology is,” he searches for a word, “exceptional. I didn’t know one could do that,” he acknowledges. Obviously, he isn’t enthusiastic about it, but he does have to grant him some grudging respect. His thoughts lead him to a more pressing issue. “Has Anna always been able to hear the angels’ true voices and understand them, even when they are talking in Enochian?” he inquires curiously. The former might not have surprised him as much – she could be a possible vessel for one of his brothers, after all, but the latter should be impossible. It makes him wonder about who Anna really is.  

“Honestly? No idea.” Dean shrugs. “I don’t think the angels came down to talk to her pre-apocalypse. They aren’t much ones for talking or, I don’t know, singing lullabies,” he adds sarcastically. “But she told me she started hearing them in their head after... ” he falters and bites his tongue, as if he’d given away too much information. “... well, um, half a year before they started attacking us, tops. Everyone thought she was crazy. Sent her to a loony bin and everything.” He shakes his head. “Funny, you know. If anyone had listened to her we might have had been able to prepare, but everyone just marked it off as another nutter announcing the end of the world that never actually comes. And now look at us.”

Castiel doesn’t really pay heed to his bitterness. There is something else that caught his attention before, and he hasn’t quite wrapped his head around it yet. “She hears them _in her head?_ ” he repeats incredulously.

It is impossible.

“Yup. Not, like, all the time, but sometimes bits and pieces come through. Very helpful. And now we can just wait and hope that she stumbles onto some valuable info on how to torch the suckers, now that we’re wired into them 24/7.“

Castiel splutters. “Excuse me?”

He must have misheard. He must have.

Dean is grinning now. It’s darker than usual, almost grim, not his normal smile that can light up an entire room, but Castiel doesn’t have the time to focus on this. “Well, find a way to kill them. Fight back.”

“Fight back?” Castiel echoes faintly when he finds his voice again. He is staring at Dean in wide-eyed horror, and he cannot bring himself to stop. “Kill them?”

In this moment, all Castiel wants to do is fly away, escape, get as far away from here as possible. He _knows_ , rationally, that he is not in danger, and nor are his kin. Still, he wants nothing more than to leave. How is he supposed to stay around humans who plan to murder his brothers? But there is nowhere he can go: he mustn’t leave, he knows that, because he cannot leave his lost brother alone out here. So he fights his panic, tries to convey as little of it as possible, and stays.

“There’s gotta be a way. They can’t be invincible. Bobby’s been doing some reading, and he says there are traditions of fights between angels and demons, and that at least some of them died, but Ruby doesn’t know anything about it. Not old enough, I suppose. Anyway, if they could do it, we can, too.”

“The only thing that can kill an angel is an angel.” The words leave Castiel’s mouth before he can control himself. He hadn’t meant to say them out loud. In fact, he doesn’t even know where they are coming from. It is true, mostly, but he shouldn’t have said it. Maybe this rational part of him wants to prevent the humans from trying. Maybe he wants to reassure himself that, even if they did try to attack his brothers, they could do no harm. Castiel doesn’t know anymore.    

Dean shifts so that he can look at Castiel with a frown. “How do you know that?”

Castiel swallows. “This is not the first time I’ve read substantial angel lore, Dean,” he says quietly.

“Demons killed angels before,” the man contradicts.

“Not all demons used to be men. The first demons were angels. Then they Fell, and became what they are today. Lucifer was the first to Fall, and others followed.” Once again, Castiel doesn’t even know why he gives Dean this information. It’s not like Castiel needs him, or that he has to correct his assumptions. If anything, he should hate Dean for his thoughts.

Strangely enough, he doesn’t. If their roles were reserved, he thinks, he would probably do the same. If Dean posed a serious threat to his family, as the angels pose to his, he would want to at least incapacitate them to ensure they couldn’t hurt his brothers. However, the range of his understanding for Dean and the rest of the group members still surprises him. Anyone else would have smote them on the spot. Castiel himself might have, once. But now that he has come to know the humans more closely, beyond mere observations from the distance, he finds that he doesn’t want them harmed either. Nevertheless, the thought that they plan an actual, effective rebellion against the forces of Heaven still has him trembling with a mixture of terror, anger and anxiety.

“Lucifer?” Dean snorts. “The devil? Seriously?”

Castiel raises his eyebrows and looks at him pointedly. “If angels are real, why is it so hard for you to believe that he is, too?”

“Whoa, stop!“ Dean says. “We’re getting dangerously close to theological shit again, and I ain’t touching that one with a ten foot pole. I’m not nearly drunk enough for that.” He squares his shoulders. His tone is decisive, leaving no room for arguments. “And even so. Point stands. Fallen angels or demons or whatever, they weren’t angels. There’s a way, and we will find it.”

It is obvious that Castiel’s words don’t have the desired effect, namely arguing Dean out of pursuing this goal. It doesn’t matter, he tells himself. He will warn Zachariah, and thus run no risk of any of his brothers getting harmed in any way. Castiel doesn’t believe that the humans will find a way to hurt, or even kill, his kin without actually learning it from the angels themselves, but he has underestimated them before, and there is no way of telling if Bobby’s books contain compromising and dangerous information. It is always wise to be careful.

“You are... very determined,” Castiel remarks hesitantly, which makes Dean grunt.

“No shit, Sherlock,” he says. “Those bastards destroyed the world, in case you didn’t notice. Hell, Cas, doesn’t that make you _angry_?”

“You are not the only one who has lost loved ones in this war,” Castiel reminds him softly. He cannot speak entirely for himself, here, because while he has lost countless brothers in battles, he hasn’t lost any in this particular war. He understands, though. He knows pain, and loss, and anger. He knows how deeply his brethren hate the demons for every brother they took away from the Host. Sometimes he thinks it’s the only sentiment that they are able to feel, aside from love and adoration for their Father and an overwhelming sense of duty. “I know how you feel. However, I fail to see the point in mindlessly throwing yourself into a fight you cannot possibly win.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Dean,” Castiel says urgently, “their numbers are far greater than yours, and they are _far_ more powerful. They would wipe this whole area off the map in one strike if they considered it necessary. The only reason they haven’t done it yet is because they think you are rather insignificant, and that they will find and take you out eventually anyway. They are in no rush, because time doesn’t mean the same to them as it does to you. But the moment you begin to stir up actual, serious trouble, they will destroy you.”

Dean sits quiet for a moment, taking the words in. Then his usual cocky smirk pulls up the corners of his mouth, effectively hiding his concern. “Wow, aren’t you just a little ball of sunshine and optimism,” he says, and downs the remainder of his beer in one go.

“I don’t want you to get hurt, Dean.” Castiel hadn’t realised this is true until the words left his mouth. Strangely enough, the truth of the statement doesn’t startle him. He must have known this subconsciously for a while now. He _likes_ Dean, with his sometimes abrasive but usually good-humoured ways, his sarcasm and love for his brother, his protectiveness and the strength to go on and look out for everyone even when he needs nothing more than the rest of a good night’s sleep. He likes Sam, too, with his quick wit and interest in a million details and his kindness, just like he likes sweet, gentle Jo, who has more strength and determination than she lets on. Sometimes he even finds himself secretly enjoying Loki’s sense of humour.

He has let himself grow attached to these humans, he realises. For the first time, he actually cares if his brothers intend to do them harm.

“Defying the angels is one thing, a suicide mission is another thing entirely,” he goes on. “You are already defying them. Are you not alive? You have escaped them, and you keep escaping them. You are _alive_ , and you are _safe_. Does that matter nothing to you?”

“It’s not good enough, Cas,” Dean replies angrily. “I’m not gonna live the rest of my life in a hole in the ground like a coward, constantly watching my back and hoping they don’t find us. I’m not. I won’t let Ben grow up like that, and I won’t have the others spend their lives like that either. They deserve better.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Is Ben your son?”

The abrupt change of topic throws Dean for a loop. “I- What? No. No!” he says quickly. “I mean, I thought he was, once. Lisa and I... we had this thing. But she swears he’s not mine. Doesn’t matter, though, he’s as good as mine now, and I’m responsible for him. I’m responsible for all of them, and I’m gonna get ‘em out of here. End of story.”

“But isn’t your first responsibility to keep them safe?” Castiel wonders. “Not to get them ripped to pieces?”

Dean’s lips are pressed into a tight line. “We’re not safe in here, Cas. There ain’t no safe place for any of us in this world anymore. Okay, we have a bit of protection, but who knows how long that’ll last. Sooner or later these sons of bitches are gonna burst through the front door and slaughter us, and we won’t even be able to defend ourselves.” He shakes his head. “I’m not waiting for that to happen. Sometimes offence is the best defence.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

Dean shrugs. “I always knew the world was gonna end bloody. Might as well go down swinging. The others think the same. Well... Lisa and Bela might back out, but the rest know what they signed up for.”

“Do you value your life so little?”

“Oh I do value my life,” Dean says, “It’s just that this isn’t much of a life.”

“I believe many would disagree.”

“Yeah, well man, I don’t think so. I think we all just want to go back to how it was.”

“This world will never be what it was before, Dean,“ Castiel reminds him softly. “You can never go back.”

Dean stares into the distance. “I know.”

“Dean,” he urges quietly, “don’t throw your future away for a past that will never come back.” When he is met with stony silence, he sits back and watches the sky. The stars are beautiful tonight. Castiel wonders whether his brothers will ever be able to see them the way he sees them now, with human eyes. They seem so much smaller this way; humans can never fully perceive the greatness of God’s creation. And yet, they are magnificent in every single way.

It would be a shame if no one was left to contemplate them like this again. Just like it is a shame, he muses, to take the lives of good people before their time has come. To drive them to such desperate actions that can only end in their certain death. Castiel ponders all this, and makes a decision.

“If this place was secure,” he begins slowly, “thoroughly protected against angels... if I could promise you that they will never find you, would you desist from your plans to start a rebellion against the angels? Would you stay here and live in peace and safety?”

Dean turns to look at him, eyes glinting with puzzlement. “Why?” he demands. “You found something?”

Castiel hesitates. “I might have,” he says eventually. “I’m not entirely sure yet, but it looks promising.”

“You didn’t tell Sam.”

“I didn’t want to falsely raises his hopes until I was absolutely certain that it will work. But you didn’t answer my question. Would you promise me to stay away from the angels and live here in quiet?”  

Dean swallows heavily, and refuses to answer.

“Would it really be so bad?” Castiel asks. “Living here with Sam and the people you consider your family? Is this not something worth living for?”

“Why do you care so much?” Dean shoots back, almost brusquely.

Castiel hesitates a moment before answering. “I told you.” He hasn’t, not really, he supposes, but he trusts Dean to make the right deductions about the gratitude he feels for the help they offered, the quiet understanding they have of each other even though they couldn’t be more different, and the tentative friendship that is building between them.

Dean huffs. “... Okay,” he says in the end. “You find a hundred–per-cent fool-proof way, we’ll talk.”

It’s not a promise, but it’s good enough for now. It’s good enough for Castiel to know that, while he will still have to find a way to contact and warn Zachariah, and preferably find a way to disable the software that allows them to listen in on his brothers’ conversations, he will put up every protection sigil he knows once he leaves, to ensure that none of his brothers can harm the humans.

It’s not easy, he thinks, sympathising with both sides.

Suddenly, Dean grimaces. “Urgh,” he says, “we didn’t have a _moment_ there, did we?”

Castiel has no idea what he is talking about, so he just blinks. Apparently, his lack of affirmation is enough to reassure Dean.

“Anyway,” he says, stands up and stretches, “we should probably hit the sack.” When he sees that Castiel makes no move to stand up, he raises his eyebrows. “Seriously, man, you need some sleep.”

Castiel shrugs. “I do not require much sleep,” he says, but relents when an idea pops into his head. “But you are probably right. I should... get some rest.” With one last look at the night sky, he bids Dean goodnight, and they both return to their rooms. Castiel closes the door behind him firmly.

Most humans do not know it, but angels do hear prayers that are directed to them. Addressing and angel directly doesn’t mean that they must answer it – in fact, his superiors had forbidden them to travel to earth to answer prayers a long, long time before the war started – but it is impossible for the angel not to listen to it. If he cannot reach Zachariah with his grace without being detected, then he can do it this way. Being in his vessel and with his grace hidden away, he is human enough for his superior to hear him this way. And there is, in fact, a way for them to talk safely.

“Zachariah,” he says quietly, “my brother. I have important news, but I dare not speak freely. I will lay myself to rest and try to fall asleep. Meet me in my dream, so we may talk.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, but slips out of his shoes – a habit, he has learned, of humans; apparently it is customary to not wear your complete attire in bed – and lays down on the soft mattress, rolling himself onto his back and trying to make himself comfortable. He has absolutely zero experience with sleep, and really, the only thing he knows is required is closing your eyes. He does, and waits.

The only good it does is sharpen his other senses and become hyper aware of the sound of his own breathing and the myriad of memories, images and thoughts swirling through his mind, and he doubts that it he will manage to fall asleep. It’s easier for humans, he supposes. Their bodies and minds get tired; at some point, they will slip into unconsciousness anyway. It’s different for him. Sleep isn’t something that he can will to come and take over, and it’s not a necessity. If he is completely honest with himself, he doesn’t even want to fall asleep. Sleep means letting down your guard, being practically defenceless. It’s unnatural for an angel, and while he does feel some curiosity, he is not very keen on experiencing it himself.

But he has no choice in the matter, so he tries to calm his mind. He pictures the Heaven that has always been his favourite, the never-ending Tuesday afternoon of autistic man who had drowned in his bath tub: the quietness, the gentle breeze, the sound of birds singing. It helps a little. Even so, it takes Castiel almost an hour until he is on the verge of drifting off into sleep.

The next thing he knows, Zachariah is standing next to him, in the exact same Heaven he was thinking about. His brother looks annoyed. “I have been waiting for a long time,” he says, making Castiel lower his eyes in shame.

“Forgive me, brother,” he says quietly, “I am very new to this. Falling asleep is not as easy as it seems.”

Zachariah huffs, but doesn’t comment. “I am surprised that you would contact me like this at all,” he remarks. “If you need to talk to me that urgently, why did you not call out with your grace?”

“It is not safe.”

This elicits a laugh. “Not safe? What could possibly be safer than everything connected to Heaven?”

Castiel shakes his head. “The humans have found a way to receive and translate the songs of the Heavenly host. You must order to cease at least all communication concerning the war and jeopardising information immediately.”

“This is impossible,” Zachariah says dismissively.

“I have seen it myself. I would not bother you if I didn’t know it is the truth.”

Zachariah stares for a moment, processing the news. Castiel can see his anger rising slowly but surely, in the way he holds himself and the way his wings go rigid. “Is it the rebel group you are staying with, Castiel?” he asks, his tone so vicious that Castiel inadvertently takes a step back. His voice is practically oozing with hatred.

There is something horribly wrong with Zachariah’s reaction. Angels shouldn’t be able to feel and portray hatred, not even when they are ordered to destroy their father’s creation. It should be a work they feel indifferent about. This is how it has always been. This, this is disconcerting, alarming.

“I-“ Castiel says, and then stops himself. “No. The device comes from another rebel group.”

“Where?” Zachariah demands.

“I am unable to tell you their location,” Castiel replies. “I have not left the hideout I am currently at.” This, at least, is the truth.

“Why?”

Castiel blinks. “I needed to gain their trust,” he reasons. “A week is very little time, even for humans. Gabriel is not here, but the humans have promised me their assistance. As soon as possible, I will move from hideout to hideout to search for him.”

Zachariah is still battling to control his wrath, but he nods curtly. “Fine. But do it quickly. And if you find the damned humans who did this, I want you to destroy this device – and them. Is that understood.”

Castiel swallows, and lowers his head. “Yes, brother.”

When he looks up, the other angel is gone, leaving him standing alone on the freshly cut green grass with a feeling of hollowness in his gut.

He wonders whether it is caused by lying to his brother for the first time in his existence, the worrisome change to his brother’s behaviour, or the order he was given. 


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel opens his eyes to the birdsong of early morning and someone banging on his door. It takes him a few moments to shake off the feeling of disorientation and several blinks until he manages to focus his gaze. He could have sworn that, a minute ago, he was flying, soaring over the Atlantic Sea with Balthazar and Uriel by his side.

“Hey sleeping beauty, up and at ’em!” Loki hollers from outside.

Castiel stumbles to his feet and to the door. Loki gives him a half-amused, half-astounded once over. “Wow,” he says, “you really were sleeping, huh?” He frowns, then, and looks at him as if he was seeing him with different eyes.

He doesn’t know why it surprised the trickster, but Castiel himself is certainly taken aback. He hadn’t thought this was possible. “I... yes,” he replies lamely, making Loki chuckle. He blinks. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten. Dean said not to wake you earlier, why ever that is.” He shrugs. “Anyhow, you’re lucky we left you some breakfast, sleepyhead.”

Castiel blinks again until he finally arranges his thoughts. The feeling right after waking up, when you cannot concentrate on anything, is very unpleasant, he decides. “You should have woken me earlier,” he says. “I’m sorry, I will be there immediately.”

Loki looks him up and down again, grin stretching over his lips. “Yeah. Maybe a change of clothes, chuckles?”

Castiel looks down on himself. His clothes are thoroughly rumpled. In another time, he muses, he could have been mistaken for a homeless person. “Yes, I believe that would be appropriate.”

Loki half snorts, half laughs. “Yup. Otherwise they might ask you who you banged tonight.”

Castiel very pointedly closes the door in his face.

The demigod is still waiting for him when he finally emerges, clad in a new pair of jeans that are much better fitting then the previous ones and a T-Shirt that proclaims Led Zeppelin to be the best band in history. He doesn’t have a brush in his room, so his hair is still sticking out wildly in all directions, but at least he looks vaguely more civilized now. For some reason, the sight of him makes Loki let out an almost startled but genuine laugh. For the first time, the hardness that until now has been ever-present in his eyes, that coldness that stand in such sharp contrast to the relaxed, almost sluggish way he tends to hold himself, melts away and morphs into something that Castiel, if he didn’t know better, would call _fondness_. He is leaning against the opposite wall in his usual nonchalant devil-may-care style, and for the first time there isn’t any underlying threat in his demeanour: he looks more like he is welcoming an old friend. Castiel can be nothing but bemused by the change in his body language.

Whatever can have brought this on?

Loki pushes himself off the wall, straightens and gives him an encouraging slap on the shoulder. “Come along, bro.”

The friendliness makes him wary. Maybe he is becoming paranoid now that his views on the capabilities of humans have been rectified. He isn’t so sure anymore that he has nothing to fear from them. Which is why he notices the nearly imperceptible flinch that jerks through Loki’s body as soon as he shuts his mouth, as if he thinks there is something fundamentally wrong with what he said. If the cordiality is nothing but an act, however, why does he look more annoyed at himself than at the general situation?

He contemplates calling the trickster out on it, but Loki beats him to the punch before he can formulate the words. “So,” he drawls, “I heard you’re looking for your runaway brother.” Upon seeing Castiel’s frown, he gives a little shrug. “Word travels fast ‘round here, kiddo.”

“What does it matter to you?” Castiel asks, rigid.

Another shrug. “Just curiosity.” He tilts his head. “So it’s true.”

Castiel stops in his tracks, exasperated. He has decided, rather spontaneously, that he does not have the patience to put up with the trickster’s games. Possibly not even with his company. Not with the memories of freedom and flight and of Zachariah’s worrying anger still reverberating in his head, along with the shock of indulging in such a human activity such as sleeping with such ease. “What do you want, Loki?”

His sharp outburst doesn’t frighten Loki (unfortunately), but only makes him throw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Whoa, what crawled up your ass and died?” he asks, utterly undisturbed by the glare Castiel sends his way. “I was just trying to make some friendly conversation.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “We are not friends,” he remarks matter-of-factly. “You do not even like me.”

The smaller man looks genuinely surprised. “I never said that!” he exclaims, and then relents. “Well, I don’t _trust_ you, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“So you are saying that you intend to interrogate me about my personal motives of being here to find out whether I am, indeed, trustworthy?”

“Nope. Well... maybe a little.” He shrugs. “Dean trusts you.”

Castiel fails to see what this is supposed to mean. “You make it sound as if it were a bad thing,” he says, somewhat confused. In the back of his mind he compliments himself for his improvements in picking up on the more subtle nuances of gestures and intonations.

Loki huffs.

Castiel tilts his head and frowns. “You do not trust Dean to make a correct judgement,” he realises.

This exerts a loud, amused snort from the trickster. “Hell, no,” he says. “Deano is, contrary to popular belief, not as thick as he seems, but he’s a fucking awful sap sometimes. He makes decisions based on his instincts and first impulse rather than his head, which is one of the reasons he’s so easy to fuck with.” He humpfs. “Sam would call me a hypocrite now, but it’s still true.”

Castiel silently agrees with him, but he is still isn’t any wiser. “You have not answered my question,” he points out.

“Would you believe me if I said that I really just wanted to have a friendly conversation?”

“No.”

“Too bad,” Loki says, “’cause that’s actually the truth.” He resumes his stride, then, and despite being given the chance to get rid of him for now, Castiel follows suit. He still doesn’t know what to make of the god’s newfound interest in him, but maybe, if he acts cautiously, it might be a blessing for him. Getting the trickster on his side, and thus having a pair of watchful eyes less on his back, would be nice.

“Yes.”

“Huh?”

“The answer to your question,” Castiel elaborates calmly. “I am searching for my brother. Which, I am sure, you were already perfectly aware of.”

Loki makes a vaguely affirmative gesture. “You’ve put yourself in a lot of danger, coming here.” It sounds more like a statement than a threat.

“That is of little importance to me. There is nothing I wouldn’t do to find him. I will not leave him alone out there.”

Loki’s steps falter slightly, and a strangled sound escapes his throat. Castiel turns around to face him quickly enough to see a shadow ghosting over his features, but it’s gone before he can analyze it. “What?” he asks.

“Nothing.” The trickster does not meet his eyes. “I just... I had forgotten.”

“Forgotten what?”

“What it feels like,” he replies, as if that explains everything. He marches on in silence after that, until they reach the kitchen. Loki makes no indication of wanting to enter. When he finally looks at Castiel again, his face is unreadable, closed-off, but not as cold as it used to be. “There’s one thing you wanna keep in mind,” he says quietly. “About runaways. Sometimes they don’t want to be found.”

He is gone before Castiel has the chance to find an appropriate reply.

The small outburst makes only little more sense when he finds Dean waiting for him, the strange combination of a smile and something darker, more worried on his face. His tone, though, is strictly business. “Ah, Cas, good you’re here, buddy.”

“Is there something wrong?”

Dean twitches ever so slightly and sits a little straighter. “What? No. No, nothing’s wrong. We got news. Don’t think Loki told you yet, did he?”

A surge of excitement washes over Castiel. “Gabriel,” he breathes.

Dean nods. “Yeah, we got a lead on him... maybe. Like I said,” he continues, rubbing his hand over his neck, “there’s no Gabriel in the hideouts closest to us and no one we know personally, but there’s this guy, Jake, two camps over who says he knows one. In his thirties, ex-doctor... could that be our guy?”

“It’s possible,” Castiel determines, and slides into the booth on the bench opposite Dean and Sam. “What is out next step?”

Sam and Dean exchange a quick glance, and Sam shrugs minutely. The lines around Dean’s mouth tighten a little, and he turns back to face Castiel. “Jake told me they’re scheduled to meeting up with that group in a couple of days, to trade some supplies, and apparently this Gabriel dude will be there. Now, we usually don’t do this,” he says pointedly, “but after a little talk Jake agreed that we could come. You can meet him and see whether he’s your brother.”

Castiel nods. “When?”

“Six days from now. I’ll take you myself. I hope you’re up for hiking, ‘cause we’re not bothering Loki with this one. I’m not giving him more reason to bitch about how hard he’s working if I don’t have to. The hex bags and your spell should give us enough cover.” 

“Are you sure you’ll be back in time?” Sam asks dubiously.

“Positive. If I’m a little late we’ll just have to walk a little faster.” Dean flashes a grin that is supposed to be reassuring, but doesn’t affect Sam at all.

“Dean,” he says urgently, his voice dropping in volume. “You don’t have to do this all alone. I got this. I can go.”

Dean shakes his head sharply. “We’re not talking about this again, Sammy. One of us needs to be here and I’m not letting you deal with that demon.”

This makes Castiel prick his ears. “Where are you going?” he inquires, frowning.

“There’s something I need to do,” he answers vaguely, stoically avoiding Castiel’s eyes. This is new. Dean is usually the kind of guy who picks confrontations and is honest just about everything, even if the truth is unpleasant. He doesn’t seem like the type who likes to keep secrets.

Maybe he doesn’t trust Castiel so much after all.

“With a demon?” Castiel presses, “or _to_ a demon?” All of a sudden, a terrifying thought wriggles his way into his brain. Dean fights so hard to protect his people. He want to take back his planet. What if he decided to make a deal with the demons? All forces of hell might not be able to defeat the Host in the end, but all the demons and what’s left of the humans allying with each other would result in a huge war with a death toll he doesn’t even want to think about.

 _No_ , he tells himself, trying to calm down, _Dean wouldn’t. He_ wouldn’t _. He tolerates Ruby, but that is only because she is different. He would not trust demons enough to fight with them._

_Except if he’s too desperate and doesn’t find another way out._

Dean shifts uncomfortably. Clearly, Castiel’s undisguised horror makes him feel guilty. “He’s got something I – that _we_ need, okay?”

“What?” Castiel leans forward and growls, “ _Dean_. What is so important that Loki cannot procure and that would justify a deal with a demon?”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m going to sell my soul or anything,” Dean says, hands raised in defence.

“ _Dean_.”

Apparently, he hears the unspoken ‘don’t make me ask again’, because he answers, albeit reluctantly. “It’s a Colt, okay?”

“A colt?” Castiel repeats. This makes... little sense.

“Not just any Colt,” Sam hastens to explain. “They say this gun can kill anything. Well, we know for sure that it kills demons, at least. And we killed yellow-eyes – Azazel, I mean – with it, so we think that maybe it’ll work on angels, too. He was one of the Fallen, right?”

Castiel feels cold. “You want to use it against angels,” he echoes weakly. “Dean, you _promised._ ”

Dean shrinks a little under his accusing and appalled look. “I didn’t promise jack squat,” he protests. “I said if you manage to find some secret mojo protection or whatever, we’d talk. Nothing more.”

Castiel can only stare at him in anger and betrayal. Sam, he notices absentmindedly, is watching the exchange with some interest. He cannot bring himself to care.

“Look,” Dean reasons, “I get it, you’re angry. But what do you expect of me, huh? It’s a means of self-defence, and I sure as hell ain’t gonna let it slip away. You know, what if you don’t find anything? You can’t blame me – us – for grabbing every straw.”

Castiel looks away. If he puts it like that, he supposes, Dean has a point. He doesn’t like the lack of trust in his abilities, but then again, Dean has no knowledge about his power. He, unlike Castiel, doesn’t know for sure that he will put up protective wards.

“You shouldn’t go alone,” is all he says in the end, a silent way of letting Dean know that he understands.

“I’m not. Bobby and Rufus are coming with me. I’ll be fine. And we’re not going that far, only far enough away to summon that son of a bitch without it knowing where our hideout is. I’d really rather not have him coming around.”

Sam looks up. “When are you leaving?”

“This afternoon,” Dean scratches his head. “Which means I better go and help Bobby pack, or he’ll kick my ass six ways to Sunday.”

Once he has gone, both Sam and Castiel return to their books. He can see Sam itching to ask, but he refrains. Unlike Dean, he muses, Sam has got a lot of tact. He’s glad he gets spared the explanation; he doesn’t think there would be an easy way to define his strange relationship with Dean, the connection and fondness he feels towards him. If he is honest with himself, he doesn’t really want to think about why he cares so much. He’s afraid he wouldn’t like the answer. He’s afraid it would make him change his mind, question what he is about to do.

If he looks too closely, he is lost.

∞

Dean leaves that afternoon without saying goodbye. Castiel doesn’t know whether that is because he simply forgot, or because he did feel the small but pungent stings of guilt that Castiel’s initial sense of betrayal had caused. Castiel tells himself that it doesn’t matter.

There is a twisted sense of irony in this situation, he muses. In Heaven, he hadn’t needed to think about a lot of things. Now he feels like he has to contemplate everything, and while some small part of him is happy to be able to do so, he finds himself more and more avoiding a growing list of important topics.

Repression is a facet of the human mind, never of angelic grace.

He doesn’t stop to think about that one either. Nor does he allow himself to worry how easy adopting these human concepts comes to him. He limits himself to glancing at his wings every couple of minutes, and every time exhales in relief when he finds them unchanged, unmarred, still in their full strength and beauty. It has to be enough, for now.

The change in the atmosphere is more than just a negligible shift in people’s attitude, but still small enough that anyone who isn’t paying attention might not notice it. However, Castiel has perfected the art of watching humans by now, and he does see it: the way that everyone is just a little bit more vigilant now that Dean is gone. The tiny worried lines around Ellen’s eyes and lips; the way Sam’s eyes dart to the door more often than usual; the way the laughter seems to be a little more forced. 

Two things are much more noticeable: Sam automatically steps up to be the leader of the group with Dean out on his mission, so the others come to him with questions, and he is gone more often than not. Nevertheless, Castiel is never alone in the kitchen. Loki hangs around, completely disregards Castiel’s attempts to ignore him, and chatters incessantly. It takes a while until his usual ease returns to him in Castiel’s presence – and still, he, too, seems to be affected by Dean’s absence – but once it is back, he tells Castiel of his past, of his tricks, of the places he has seen and the gods he has battled. He doesn’t ask about Castiel’s past once. It’s only at the end of the second day that Castiel realises that this might be Loki’s way of opening up to him.

As startling and enjoyable as it is (and it is, strangely enough, having company), sometimes he wishes he would leave him alone. Loki, despite all his slack attitude, is surprisingly perceptive, and Castiel needs to surreptitiously add a page or two to this last book; the sigils that will ward the hideout from his brothers and sisters. He will have to create and adjoin it, which is difficult enough with his grace only partly at his disposal without the scrutiny of a pagan god.

“How did you meet Sam and Dean?” he asks, while waiting for Loki to find something else to turn his attention to. After all, as long as it is focused on him, he might as well use the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity.

Loki snorts, half amused, half annoyed at the memory. “Sons of bitches staked me, that’s how we met.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “In this case, shouldn’t you be dead?”

The demigod throws his head back and laughs. “I’ll be damned if I can’t outsmart those imbecile mud-monkeys,” he says, without actually sounding deprecatory. Then he launches into a detailed – and undoubtedly exaggerated and embellished – narration of the events with grand gestures and the enthusiasm of a five year old child in front of a bowl of candy. Which, Castiel thinks amusedly, is a rather accurate description, considering that Loki is indeed constantly munching on some chocolate bar or lollipop or candy cane and is what Dean calls ‘vertically challenged’. If he wasn’t all too aware of the power concealed behind this innocuous appearance, one could mistake the demigod for adorable. His view on the world and life, however, are so alien to Castiel, even more so than the humans’, that he has difficulty finding the humour in his pranks.

Maybe, he ponders, this is because he has never been known to have a sense of humour, unlike Uriel and so many others of his brothers. He thinks of Gabriel, and thinks that maybe the trickster’s humour is something he could appreciate. It’s a strange thought, coming out of nowhere. Gabriel loves to laugh, he remembers that clearly, but he is also nothing like the trickster. Castiel shakes his head and discards the notion.

The question of why Loki is now spending time with him and making an actual effort to warm up to him with obvious glee is burning on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t dare ask it, not again. The uneasy feeling his last serious conversation with the pagan god caused him still lingers in the back of his mind, and he doesn’t want it to resurface.

Jo chooses this exact moment to stride in, her T-Shirt soaking wet, and this is enough to divert Loki’s gaze for a minute or so. There’s a blank page at the end of the book, as tattered and yellowed as the others, and he uses this one to make the sigils appear on it. He’s good at stealth, and he uses so little of his grace that not even the psychic Pamela should be able to perceive. In the background, he faintly hears Jo complaining about a broken pump that Loki should fix ‘right fucking now’ before the water leaking out invalidates the wards, and he assumes that the demigod is busy enough. Still, when he finishes his work and looks up, Loki’s eyes slide over his face for a split second, just the tiniest hint of emotion in his eyes.

Then he snaps his fingers, smiles brightly at the young woman and rips open the wrapping of yet another candy bar. “All fixed now. Next time you wanna do a wet T-Shirt contest, call me first.”

Jo rolls her eyes impatiently and swats him on the back of his head. “Don’t think I won’t stake you if you don’t stop leering,” she threatens half-heartedly and makes her way over to Castiel. “Hey Cas, how are you doing over there? You head already hurting from all the dust coughed out by these old things?”

“I am fine,” he assures her, then adds, “and I believe I have found protective sigils we can apply to the walls to keep the Heavenly host out,” attempting to look as innocent as possible.

Jo’s mouth falls open. “Seriously?” she says excitedly and would have grabbed the books if Loki hadn’t snatched it from under her nose to examine the page critically. His expression morphs from sceptical into something Castiel cannot quite classify in under a second.

“How are you gonna use that one?” he asks.

Castiel thinks he must have imagined the slight emphasis on the personal pronoun, because when he looks at Loki again, the trickster conveys nothing that would hint at him knowing something he shouldn’t. There’s nothing but mild curiosity there now. Castiel reaches up and taps his fingers on a certain paragraph. “It has to be done in human blood,” he explains. “If we put it on every wall, no angel should be able to get in or out.”

Again, a kaleidoscope of emotions flickers across the trickster’s face before he hands the book back to Castiel. “This one is really good,” he acknowledges, his voice tinted with underlying layers of sentience. “Good choice.” He meets Castiel’s eyes, and the angel thinks he recognises the sentiment now.

It’s _pride._

Which makes absolutely no sense at all. But it’s there, plain to see in the glint of his eyes, the small smile playing around his mouth and the little nod he gives him. And then there is a sadness, ancient and deep, whose origin he can explain even less.

Castiel is still too confused to react when Jo announces that they should call Sam and tell him the news. But Loki looks at him somewhat expectantly, like he is waiting for an answer, so he forces himself to concentrate. “I will be able to leave with more ease knowing that these people are protected.”

“Yeah,” Loki replies, sounding distracted. There’s a long pause, and then he inhales sharply and turns towards Castiel, stiffly. “When you find your brother,” he begins slowly, “what will you do?”

Castiel blinks, startled. “I will ask him to come back home.”

Loki’s laugh is bitter and harsh, nothing like his usual mirth. Castiel could swear he is disappointed and angry, for a reason he can’t possibly fathom. “Back home – to what? Nothing is what it used to be.” He shakes his head. “There’s nothing to go home to.”

There is way too much ferocity behind his words for Castiel’s taste, so he contradicts just as firmly. “There is family.”

“Yeah, and there is finding someone because you missed them and then there is dragging their asses back to somewhere they ran from without respecting their choices.”

Castiel swallows heavily. A million thoughts are rushing through his brain all at once, and they do nothing to calm his mind. On the contrary. They are so fast and uncontrolled that he doesn’t notice the implications until much, much later, when it dawns on him that the way the trickster spits out these words is far too knowingly. For now, the realisation that punches him in the gut leaves him breathless: Gabriel ran away from his family _because of his family._ Now that he thinks about it, there cannot be another reason for his actions. Gabriel could have left to watch the humans any time, without having to cut himself off from the host. He could have come back any time, but he never did.

Why didn’t he come back? Does he hate his brothers so much? No, he decides, that is impossible. Angels are physically incapable of hating one of their own. Even when the Morningstar Fell, they still loved him. They still do. And they will never stop. Gabriel, too, will never stop loving his brothers, of that he is certain. And yet, he finds himself facing the growing fear that his brother will reject his request to accompanying him back to Heaven.

Loki apparently doesn’t notice his inner panic attack. His face is torn between something akin to longing and a horrible sneer, before he wipes his expression carefully blank. “Some things are more important than blood, kiddo,” he says plainly. “Took me a long time to get that... too long, probably... but at least I did get it in the end. And here I thought you’d begun to learn that lesson, too. Obviously I was wrong. Guess I should’ve known.”

“I don’t understand what you are talking about,” Castiel confesses, frowning and utterly confused, but the trickster just snaps his fingers and vanishes the exact moment that Sam comes through the door and overzealously demands to see the protective sigils, so Castiel shows him and pushes the strange and disconcerting moment far, far out of his mind.

∞

When Dean returns two days later, dirt covering his clothes and wearing a grim expression that contradicts the triumphant glint in his eyes, it’s to a hideout almost completely covered in protective sigils drawn in human blood. Almost, because Castiel knows he will have to get Sam to make an addition to the Enochian letters after he leaves; no angel can penetrate the wards once they are active, which would mean locking himself into the caves.

It’s impressive, and terrifying. The humans, he thinks, were all too willing to cut their hands or arms to extract the blood needed for the sigils. Every single one, except for Ben, is wearing at least one bandage around a limb, and Castiel is itching to extend his grace and heal them, but he can’t.

It is painfully obvious that “the changes to the camp’s interior design”, as Jo calls it flippantly, throw Dean for a loop. Castiel is crossing the field in the centre of the complex when Dean steps out of the dark tunnel and, for the first time sees the patterns; Anna is just finishing the last one, and granted, it’s probably a shocking sight to see a young girl with blood running down her left arm and smearing it all over the stone. He jerks to a halt so abruptly that Bobby nearly crashes into him.

“What the _fuck_?” he exclaims. His eyes roam the circle, wide with confusion and disbelief, and then immediately zero in on Castiel. “Cas, what the hell?”

“I found a way to protect the hideout,” Castiel declares, perhaps redundantly.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Anna pipes up from the other side. One last sweep of her fingers, and she picks up the clean cloth to wrap it around the wound.

“It’s _okay?_ You’re finger-painting with your own fucking blood, how is that okay?” He frowns. “Jesus, did you cover every single wall in the hideout with these doodles?”

“Yep,” Anna grins. “Every room, every tunnel. Complete angel-proofing everything. We might want to get some pictures on the walls, though. It’s not the prettiest thing to stare at every day, everywhere.”

Dean stares at the sigils in silence. “... you sure this’ll work?” he finally asks.

Castiel does is best not to let his exasperation show. “Yes,” he says plainly.

“Dean!” Sam calls, jogging towards him, looking infinitely relieved. “You okay, man?”

“Aside from the... understandable surprise at all the gore and not having showered in three days, I’m great.”

Sam wrinkles his nose as he approaches. “Ugh,” he says, “yeah, you definitely need a shower.” He bites his lip and frowns. “Did you get it?”

“Course I did, Sammy,” he says, giving his younger brother a shove. “What did you think?”

“No problems?”

“Didn’t get to shoot the sucker, but that was about it.” Dean shrugs, unaffected. “Come to think of it, Crowley was maybe a little too eager to hand me the Colt.”

Suddenly, Sam looks alarmed. “You didn’t make a deal, did you?”

Dean snorts. “Dude. I learn from my mistakes. Been there, done that, never doing it again. I’m not keen on getting a one-way ticket downstairs, no intermediate stops again. I think he just wants us to do all the dirty work while he goes and hides under a rock. Kept whining about how the bad, bad angels have ruined his business and are out for his ass.” He chucks his bag towards Sam, who catches it out of reflex. “Take care of that, okay? I’m gonna get cleaned up and, uh,” his eyes slide towards Castiel again, “get geared up for another trip, I guess. Yippee.”

Castiel frowns. “You should rest.”

“You bet your ass I’m going to sleep on a real mattress tonight before I have to go on another camping trip, dude. But we leave at first light tomorrow, so be ready.”

“Of course.”

Dean stalks off, then, and since he has nothing better to do, Castiel follows Sam inside, where he carefully places the bag on one of the tables. It doesn’t take long until most of the group comes streaming in, all keen to get a look at the legendary weapon. Sam refuses to let anyone go near it until his brother joins them again, hair still dripping wet but unquestionably in a better mood. Castiel is not surprised. Hot showers, he has found, have a deeply relaxing effect, even on him.

He sighs as he closes the door behind him. “I’m not gonna get any food before I have to start telling my little tale, am I?”

Loki rolls his eyes, snaps his fingers and makes a couple of bacon-cheeseburgers appear in front of him. “Happy?”

Dean eyes them dubiously. “Are they real?”

“Real enough,” Loki scoffs, “and not poisoned this time.”

“Oh that’s reassuring,” Dean gruffs, but takes a bite anyway. “Hmm!”

“Stop making pornographic noises and start talking,” the trickster says impatiently. “I wanna hear what kind of monkey dance Crowley pulled this time.”

“I didn’t know you two were acquainted,” Ruby says, raising her eyebrows and crossing her arms in front of her chest.

“You hang around here as long as I do, you know everyone. Besides, Crowley has good taste in liquor. Almost a man after my own heart.”

“You mean, likes screwing with people and doesn’t want to lift a finger himself to get rid of the angels?” Sam’s voice is unnaturally sharp, and so is Loki’s reaction.

“Watch it, kiddo,” he all but growls. “Without me you’d be uber-boned, and you know it. What do you want me to do, take on all of Heaven’s forces alone? I can’t kill them, Sam. Call me a coward all you want, but we both know alive beats being dead anytime.”

Castiel gets a feeling that this might be unfinished business between them, something going deeper than what they express with words and beyond the trickster’s tale of catching the brothers in a time loop, making Sam watch his brother die repeatedly.

Ruby blinks. “Wow, Sam, even I know that was kinda out of line.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean shrugs, while giving them suspicious looks. “How about you take your little lover’s spat, or whatever that is supposed to be, elsewhere, hm? Or better yet, you could get a grip and update me on how you decided to go shopping for modern art and ended up finger-painting instead.”

Sam grimaces, but turns his back towards Loki and starts by pulling Bobby’s book towards him. “So, Cas found this spell,” he begins, flipping open the page and showing it to Dean. “Took him a while to translate, but as it turns out, it’s shutting out anything that comes from upstairs. No angel can get past it.”

“Like a devil’s trap for the winged ass-monkeys?”

“Well, no, it doesn’t trap them. They can’t cross past it. We’ve put them up on every entrance, every tunnel, just in case any of them ever fail.”

“You should check them regularly,” Castiel advises. “And maybe refresh them from time to time. But as long as you are inside these walls, you are safe.”

“Unless, of course, the angels decide to burn out the entire area,” Ruby points out.

“Yeah, well, if they decide to roast the entire planet alive after all then there’s nothing we can do to protect us anyway. But I don’t think that’s going to happen unless you are bent on creating some kind of huge-ass ruckus,” Loki says pointedly, waving his hands in the direction of Dean’s retrieval.

Dean presses his lips into a tight line, and wordlessly reaches into the bag, pulling forth an antique Colt. Castiel recognises it immediately. Sam was right, this is not just any weapon. This weapon is famous even amongst his brothers, for there are few things made by men that can defeat the creatures of hell.

“The Colt,” he says before he even knows the words are leaving his mouth. “Made by Samuel Colt in 1835, along with thirteen bullets, to fight the supernatural. It was also the key to one of the Devil’s Gates. In Wyoming, if I am not mistaken.” He shakes his head. “There are only five things in all of creation this weapon cannot kill.”

When he looks up, everyone is staring at him. He clears his throat. “I... did some reading.”

“Obviously,” Dean says slowly, narrowing his eyes. His movements are suddenly cautious again, as if he’s not sure how to react, whether Castiel isn’t a threat after all. “You... ah... wanna fill us in on the things we can’t ice with this?”

“Eve, the mother of all. Leviathans. Angels. Death. God.“

Dean starts laughing. It dies quickly once he becomes aware that Castiel is serious. “You’re not joking.”

“No.”

He swallows. “Well, we don’t know for sure if we don’t try.”

Loki kicks the side of the table to get his attention. “I, for once, agree with the young grasshopper here. Going up against angels with a weapon you don’t know works is a colossally stupid idea, even for you muttonheads.”

“You got any better ideas?”

“Yeah, for once, keep your heads down and don’t make them so angry they come after us.”

“We’ve fought against them before,” Sam interrupts.

Loki huffs. “This is different, idiot. A bullet dunked in demon blood blown through their vessels is uncomfortable and itchy, and it throws them off track for a minute or two, but it’s nothing but a bug bite for them. You break out a gun like that, whether it’s working or not, congrats, you will win their full attention. Oh, and how’s that going to work anyway? One gun to gut the whole host? Well good luck with that, but if you’re that stupid, I’m out.”

“If we don’t fight there aren’t going to be any humans left for you to pull pranks on.”

“No, Sam,” the demigod replies angrily. “if you fight, then there isn’t going to be anyone or anything left. You might just as well drop a nuke on our heads. But, please, by all means, go ahead and test it. In fact, you can test Cas’s theory right now. Let’s see if that Colt can kill one of the creatures on his list.”

Castiel freezes. _No_ , he thinks, panicking, _this is impossible, Loki can’t know-_

“Shoot me.”

There is a moment of absolute silence. “What?” Sam asks, startled and confused and horrified.

Loki shrugs. “I’m a god,” he says, uncaring. “Bet you ten bucks that this won’t do shit.”

“I can’t shoot you!” Sam’s voice is wrecked.

“Oh come on, it’s not like you haven’t been itching to do it for ages.”

“Are you insane?” Sam splutters. “What if it works? What if – no. No!”

“Okay, everybody calm down!” Dean’s voice rises above the exchange. “No one in here is shooting anybody.”

“Pansies,” Loki mutters under his breath.

“Shut it, midget.” Dean snaps, and with one last asserting look at Castiel turns to the others, who are watching the spectacle with wide eyes. “Okay. You all know that our plan A was always to fight back, take back our planet. Now, I’d still love to gank these sons of bitches, but I’ll be realistic here. We all know our chances are slim, even if this gun works. And now, for the first time, it looks like we have an actual alternative.” He swallows hard. “I don’t like the idea of living under a friggin rock for the rest of my life. I really don’t. But it’s something you probably want to think about. This... compound, it’s safe now.” He clears his throat. “Well, we don’t have to decide this now. I’m going to take Cas up to Jake’s area tomorrow and when we... I... come back, we can talk about this, okay?”

A heavy silence follows his words and lingers after he leaves the room. Castiel follows him out. He is not in the mood to celebrate a goodbye party. Not with what just happened, and not when it means that he has to think about the fact that leaving these people behind will be painful. They have grown on him, some more than others, but all have grown on him just the same. Knowing he will not see them again, never will be able to enter the caves again, and being aware that they are still facing the threat that his brothers pose... it makes it hard for him to leave. Still, Castiel knows he has to, so he will.

He doesn’t have to call out for Dean. The man stops to wait for him as soon as he hears Castiel approaching.

“What?” he asks roughly. “You’re not going to lecture me, are you?”

He would like to, but he won’t. Influencing Dean is not an easy task, from what he has gathered over the past week and a half, and it is not his task. He can only hope that the others make the right decision and convince Dean to go along with it. Maybe he should talk to Sam. Sam is the key to getting to Dean, that much is obvious, and if Sam believes that fighting is the wrong thing to attempt, then Castiel is sure Dean will do as his little brother asks.

So he shakes his head. “No.”

“Good, because I got to tell you man, I am not dealing with this right now.”

Castiel falls in step with him, and they continue on towards their respective rooms.

“So... big day for you tomorrow.”

“... Yes,” Castiel says hesitantly. “I suppose you could say that.”

Dean nods. For some reason, he doesn’t look happy. “You know that-“

“That it might not be him, yes,” Castiel finishes the sentence for him. “I am well aware of that.”

“For what it’s worth, I...I kinda hope for you that it’s him.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Castiel answers, genuinely grateful. He takes a look over his shoulder, back to where the voices and the laughter of the others resound through the air. “I will miss them,” he confesses.

Dean rubs his neck. “Well, you could... always come back, you know.”

Castiel stills for a moment. “I don’t think that would be wise,” he says in the end. “As much as I’d like to – I have to continue my search. You know that.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that, just... what I meant was, if you don’t find him anywhere, or even if you do find him....you’ll be welcome here.” He struggles to get the words out. That in itself doesn’t surprise Castiel; Dean doesn’t strike him as a man who expresses feelings with ease. He is better with his hands than he is with his words. What does surprise him is what Dean is saying.

He doesn’t have an appropriate answer, not really. Not one that doesn’t make his guts clench in guilt and sorrow. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Anyway, better get a good night’s sleep, right?”

Castiel hasn’t slept since the first time when he had to talk to Zachariah; he didn’t like it at all, and he is not keen on reliving the experience. But his superior has demanded to be kept up to date with his progress, so Castiel bids Dean goodnight and retreats into his own small room. “Zachariah,” he calls out quietly, tries not to think about the disturbing anger his brother displayed the last time he saw him, and lies down.

Sleep comes easier to him this time, perhaps because he is not scared for his brothers anymore, and it is not hard to calm down. Or perhaps it is the body, recalling a familiar activity. Either way, he drifts off after only a few more minutes, only to find himself in Heaven once again. “Zachariah,” he nods, acknowledging his superior’s presence.

“I take it you have news for me.” Zachariah steps closer. Somehow, Castiel finds him menacing. “Did you destroy that device they use to overhear our communication?”

“I- yes,” Castiel lies, uneasily. Truth be told, he hasn’t thought about it again. He knows Anna and Ash are recording and translating every word the angels say, but he also knows that now, after his warning, battle orders are passed on in a different manner. The humans haven’t been able to extract any valuable information, so he hasn’t given it any further thought. But he cannot confess this to Zachariah; he would be furious.

“And located the group of maggots that invented it?”

Castiel swallows. “No. This is not my principal duty.”

Zachariah seems angered, but he just smiles, and ugly grin that deforms his face. “I hope you have some news on your principal duty, then, and are not just wasting my time.”

“I have a possible lead on Gabriel’s whereabouts,” he informs him. “I cannot know for sure, but I will leave this hideout at first light to investigate. One of the humans will lead me to another rebel residence, and I will continue my search from there.”

“Good,” Zachariah says. “Do that. Oh, and Castiel, take down these abortions on your way out, will you?”

Castiel freezes. “What?”

“You heard me,” Zachariah says, waving his hand impatiently. “A couple of hairless apes less to worry about... what?”

“I... I cannot do that.”

“ _Why_?”

“It would be unwise, Zachariah,” Castiel says, thinking quickly. “Dean would never lead me if I killed his friends.”

“Then you threaten him!”

Castiel shakes his head. “All of them, every single one... they would rather die than betray their friends. If I were to slaughter these people, he would have me kill him before he brought me to another group. I have their trust – and I need it, in order to work with them. You suggested I go... undercover is the term, I believe. I can’t be unsuspicious if I leave a trail of death behind me. I cannot find Gabriel without their help,” he urges. “I cannot give up a possible lead on our brother over this.”

Zachariah is bristling with anger by now. “Fine. Have it your way. We can smite them once you’ve found Gabriel.”

Then he is gone, and Castiel wakes with a start. His throat is dry and he feels like someone punched a hole into his chest. The same dread that he felt when he thought he humans could pose a threat to his brothers overcomes him now, but this time it is not his kin he is worried about. Zachariah does have a reputation for being unyielding, unforgiving, and it seems that his hatred for humankind is consuming him. Whatever he thinks of doing to the humans still resisting, it will not be pretty.

And Castiel fears that he does not have the means to stop him.    

∞

By the time he and Dean leave the hideout in the morning, Castiel finds himself wishing he had said goodbye. But then again, what is there to say, really? Castiel is tired of lying to them, and most of what he could have told them would have been outright lies. If there is any upside to this, it is that he can stop lying to the humans he has grown to care about. Soon he will be able to stop lying to Dean as well, which, especially when faced with Dean’s honesty, has always made him feel exponentially more guilty. Whatever group he comes to next, if he doesn’t find Gabriel this time, will be different. He cannot allow himself to develop friendly feelings for everyone he meets. He will have to be content to save this one group. It’s not enough, not enough to make him feel better, or any less guilty, nor enough to shake off the deeply rooted feeling that something is fundamentally _wrong_ about this war, but it will have to do.

They have the angel radio that he has refused to destroy. Maybe he will regret this choice later, but he doesn’t think so. And they have the wards. He has left a letter for Sam, with instructions on the Enochian letters he still has to add, and he is sure that he will listen. He hopes so.

Castiel can never return, but they will be fine as long as they stay inside. Their wellbeing no longer lies in Castiel’s hand.

“You kinda look like you’re thinking awfully hard,” Dean comments after almost three hours of walking mostly in comfortable silence.     

“I will miss it,” he replies. For the first time he outright admits it, even to himself. Two weeks ago, he couldn’t have imagined finding his time on earth pleasurable. Now he thinks that returning to Heaven will be strange. He doesn’t really fit in here on earth, but he is not sure he can walk insouciantly amongst his brothers anymore either. He has changed over the course of these weeks. The doubts, the emotions have made him stray from what he was before, have given him a glimpse of what humanity is like. He is less of an obedient angel now. Somewhere along the way, his growing attachment to humanity has stopped worrying him.

Now, walking next to Dean, he realises that he has hardly thought about Heaven in the past days. He has concentrated so much on his task to keep the humans safe that it has slipped out of his mind. The initially overwhelming longing for Heaven has subsided. He thinks that maybe he will start longing for this place instead, when he returns to his home. Of course, this could be a side effect of him letting his grace gradually spread a little wider again now that they are away from Pamela. Dean, he is positive, will not notice the change in him. After all, his grace is still subdued enough to make sure he doesn’t come off as anything but human. But he can hear his brothers again now, their songs, their discussions, their laughter. It’s easier to forget how much he misses Heaven like this, when they seem so close.

“Loki mentioned that you have fought against angels before,” Castiel says, bringing up an issue he had wanted to ask about for a while. “I have heard about you being rebels, but I have never actually seen you making an attempt to fight them.”

Dean shrugs. “We don’t really have anything to use against them, you know? So that was kind of a problem. We didn’t plan any attacks either, ‘cause we didn’t have any way of finding out where the angels are. So really, most of the fighting we did was when we accidentally ran into them on some raids so we shot at them to make them slow down and give us time to get away. We found out about that demon blood aversion by accident, too. Just got lucky for once with that one.”

“I assume Ruby provided the blood.”

“Yeah. Not that it does much good – the effect isn’t even half as strong as dead man’s blood for vampires – but I’m not complaining about any chance of putting some bullets that actually hurt into these suckers.” He glances at Castiel, lips twitching. “And now you’ll tell me that we can’t build up a functioning resistance with just one angel-killing weapon.”

“It seems I don’t have to tell you. You are already well aware of your almost non-existent chances of success and of my opinions on the matter.” He sighs. “Dean, I know you want to protect those people. So don’t lead them into a battle they cannot win. The life you lead... I understand it’s not what you wanted for yourself or for them. But it’s not a bad life. Especially considering the circumstances, it is possibly the best life you can have these days. I sincerely wish you could see that.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dean says, his voice rough. “Do you think the angels will ever leave? Like, when they think they got us all? Will they... go back to sit on their clouds and play on their little harps? What do they want with our planet anyway?”

“I don’t know Dean. I truly don’t.” He shakes his head. “I have been asking myself this for a long time. I wish I had some answers, but... ”

It’s disconcerting to admit that. It’s true, he is only a lowly foot soldier. One seraph amongst thousands. He is good at what he does, a splendid warrior, and extraordinary strategist, but at the end of the day, he is following orders, not giving them. His superiors always keep them in the dark about everything beyond mission instructions and the basic, great picture. Castiel realises that he has no idea what is going on. He hasn’t known for a long time. He’s been wondering ever since the war started, and his doubts only grow the more time he spends on earth. The longer he is here, the surer he is that his Father isn’t giving the orders anymore.

“I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore,” he whispers. His existence was so much easier when he simply followed orders, when he didn’t get to see the shades of grey. When he didn’t have to make decisions himself, when he was sure that everything his brothers commanded was righteous and good. And yet he finds himself unwilling to go back to his earlier state. He doesn’t think he can rely on his brothers’ judgement anymore. Maybe he can’t rely on his own, either, but he still feels better this way than when he blindly follows Zachariah’s orders.

Dean blinks at him. “Um,” he begins hesitantly, “look, dude...”

“It’s alright,” Castiel interrupts him with a small smile. “No, ah, chick-flick moments, right?” It’s an expression he has picked up from Dean and that has taken him a while to understand. The words still feel foreign on his tongue, but apparently he has used them in the right context; Dean grins, and the awkwardness in his posture floats away.

“Exactly,” he proclaims, pointing his finger at Castiel and winking at him. “So, I gotta tell you...”

He rambles on while he continues his walk, but Castiel isn’t listening. Not to him, anyway, because all of a sudden, he can hear his brothers a lot clearer than before, which can only mean one thing: they are flying in close distance. Three of them, flying fast, radiating determination and grimness. He recognises their voices.

Zachariah is among them, leading them. His grace radiates a smugness as well as an interminable bloodlust that makes Castiel gasp, even though he doesn’t technically need to breathe.

“Cas, you okay?” Dean has stopped to look at where Castiel is rooted to the ground in horror, wearing a concerned frown. “Cas!”

His thoughts are rushing. There is one thing that Zachariah can possible want to do. He knows it even without hearing the command. He knows where they are headed; what he doesn’t know is how they became aware of the exact location of the hideout, but it doesn’t matter much now.

It’s only eight in the morning. The chances that Sam has already read his messages and added the necessary letters and signs to the protective sigils are slim to none.

“Dean,” he rasps, “we have to go.”

“What? What the hell is going on with you, man?”

“We have to go back _now_!” He doesn’t have time to explain, so he gives up on masking his grace – it won’t matter now, when they go back, whether or not the psychic will notice, because they will all learn what he is anyway – unfurls his wings, grabs Dean’s arm and transports them back to the hideout entrance.

Dean stumbles, catches himself, and rips his arm out of Castiel’s grip. “What the-how did you -“ he starts, only to break off mid-sentence when he lays eyes on the three suited figures in front of him, the lifeless body of Ruby lying at their feet. Zachariah is in the middle, flanked by Uriel and Yofiel.

Castiel could swear he still hears Ruby’s screams reverberating through the air.

“Cas, what’s going on here?” Dean asks, already taking a precautious step backwards, away from him. Castiel thinks that deep down he probably already knows, but he still refuses to believe what his eyes are seeing. Of course. Who would want to believe they hosted an angel in their midst, and considered him as a friend, when said creatures are your nemeses?     

“Zachariah,” Castiel growls, because he cannot afford to focus his attention on his friend right now, not when three of his brothers are standing in front of them, ready to kill everyone in the hideout, and he is the only one standing between them. “What are you doing here?”

“Castiel,” his superior says, wearing his ugly, cheerful smile. “I see you have decided to join the party after all.” His grin widens. “Oh, don’t look so grumpy. You think we didn’t know where you were, and track your prayers to this spot?”

“You _promised_ , brother.”

Behind him, Dean lets out a strangled sob. “No,” he says, his voice trembling with horror. “No, Cas, not you.”

Uriel laughs. “Oh, will you look at that. How cute, the worm has grown attached to him.”

“I promised nothing,” Zachariah says dismissively. “What? You knew this was coming, so let’s get this show on the road.”

There is no doubt in his voice at all, nor in his grace, when he answers. “No,” he says, decisively.

Zachariah blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Castiel snaps. “You will not harm them. I won’t let you.” He doesn’t have to think about this decision. He doesn’t worry about right and wrong anymore. He _knows_. He cannot let them take Dean.

He is disobeying, and he doesn’t even think twice about it. All the fears he has had about Falling are coming true, but he can hardly bring himself to care. All his doubts have disappeared with one single blow. He’s not afraid anymore. He’s not lost anymore, and he knows what he has to do.

“Dean,” he says, without taking his eyes off his brothers, who are staring at him with expressions ranging from shock over disbelief to anger. “Go inside. Tell Loki to get everyone to safety, as far away and quickly as possible,” he continues sharply, extending his arm. 

“Don’t touch me you son of a-“ Dean rages, but Castiel has already pressed two fingers against his forehead and zapped him right into the middle of the compound. When he turns towards his brothers again, they are holding their swords, and Castiel too makes his blade materialise in his hand.

“Brother,” Yofiel says, “what are you doing?”

“The right thing.”

“You would stand against your brothers? Defy the will of Heaven for a pile of cockroaches?” Uriel seethes. “Disobey our father?”

Castiel knows he can never explain that he doesn’t believe that God is at the top of the chain of command anymore. His brothers wouldn’t understand. So he settles for something more urgent. “Leave,” he begs them. “Just go, and leave them alone. Please, brothers, don’t make me fight you.”

“You have no right to call us brothers anymore,” Uriel replies and then, as if the past millennia in which they were close friends mean nothing, throws himself forward with such speed that Castiel barely managed to raise his blade to parry his attack. A second later, he takes a fist to the face, but the pain is nothing compared to the one caused by Uriel’s outright hatred or against the terrible awareness of the consequences of his choice. If he wants to survive, he will have to kill his brothers. The thought alone makes him feel sick to the core, but his instincts are stronger than that and overpower his hesitation. He only allows himself to think one thought: that he has to buy Dean time to get to safety. The rest doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if he dies. It doesn’t matter if he kills – not anymore. He has already committed the greatest crime known amongst angels. He is already lost to Heaven, to his brethren. He can never go home.

Nothing matters anymore. Nothing but what he is fighting for.

Uriel is a good fighter; he is strong, and he’s ruthless. Brutal. Castiel is quicker, more agile, and better at anticipating his brother’s next moves. He manages to avoid a fatal blow and, with one quick turn, manoeuvres himself behind Uriel’s back.

He doesn’t hesitate before plunging the angel blade into the core of his body, and thus, his grace. He doesn’t look away when the bright light erupts from his mouth and eyes, the sign of an angel’s grace being ripped apart and scattered all over the universe, nor when the empty vessel slumps to the ground where the shadows of two giant wings are burnt into the soil. He feels like throwing up, but he forces himself to focus. After all, as a soldier, he is used to watching his brothers die. It doesn’t get easier the more he watches fall, especially when he has never killed his own kin, but it’s familiar enough to let him remember that he hasn’t finished yet.

Yofiel might have been more hesitant to attack before, but now that he has seen him kill Uriel, there is nothing holding him back. Castiel hardly has time to prepare himself for the strike before his blade cuts into his side. A wrenched scream escapes his lips. Maybe it’s seeing him in pain that makes Yofiel slow to react, or maybe it’s something else, but the result is the same. Castiel’s blade is buried deep in his heart before he notices that Castiel has moved despite his injury. Castiel watches his grace burn and his vessel crumble to the floor, and stumbles to his feet, clutching the gash at his left side where grace and blood are leaking through his fingers.

He looks up and meets Zachariah’s fury, knowing full well that this will be the end. Zachariah is much stronger than he is, even were Castiel not injured, and Zachariah knows no mercy. He never has. Castiel just hopes he has bought enough time for Loki to get everyone out. He tightens his grip on his sword, now covered with deep red blood to the hilt, determined to hold Zachariah off as long as possible.

But just as Zachariah reaches for him, a hand clamps down on Castiel’s shoulder, and he is whisked out of the way.

When the world around him stops spinning, Castiel opens his eyes to an unfamiliar and crowded room. He gasps, almost losing his balance – and when did flying become this uncomfortable and disconcerting anyway? – but the grip on his shoulder doesn’t loosen at all until he straightens. Before Castiel knows what is going on, his saviour rips his hand away from his side and slams his own palm over the injury. Heat explodes around the edges of the cut, and then the pain is gone.

“You absolute _idiot,”_ Loki hisses, furious.

“Wait, you went back for him? Are you nuts?” he hears someone – Bela, he thinks – screech in the background, but the voices hardly register through the shock. He thinks he hears Dean yell at the trickster, but he isn’t sure.

Loki is glaring at him, blatantly ignoring the protests coming from behind him. Except he isn’t Loki at all. The very moment his skin made contact with the grace seeping out of Castiel’s vessel, he knew. He sees it now, the true essence of the creature in front of him, and the rage boiling up inside him is overwhelming, stronger than the burst of gratefulness, relief and joy.

His fist connects with Gabriel’s chin before he notices that he has moved his arm at all.

“You!” he screams.

Gabriel actually stumbles backwards – whether it’s because of the force of the unexpected blow or because of the surprise Castiel doesn’t know – and rubs his chin. “Ow,” he complains. “What was that for?”

“All this time,” Castiel rasps. “All this time you knew.”

Gabriel snorts. “Of course I knew. Hate to break it to you, bro, but you ain’t exactly subtle. You still have a lot to learn when it comes to hiding your grace. You might be able to fool those mooks here, but not me.”

“Why wouldn’t you reveal yourself to me?” Castiel asks, confusion and hurt making it hard for him to think straight. “I was searching for you, Gabriel, I was searching for you _everywhere!_ And you would have let me go and leave you behind without knowing…” His voice breaks.

“Exactly what part of ‘I skipped out of Heaven almost _millennia_ ago, blocked your number and joined the pagans’ is too hard for you to understand?” he hisses almost viciously. Every word hurts more than the blade that Yofiel almost cut him to pieces with. If it weren’t for the sadness in Gabriel’s eyes while he speaks and the knowledge that he just saved his life, Castiel thinks he might fall apart hearing them.

“Wait, wait wait wait!” Dean interrupts sharply. From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees that he, as well as the other hunters, has drawn his gun. He’s not pointing it at them, not yet, but the safety is off and his finger is on the trigger, ready to aim at them any second. “ _Gabriel?”_   He blanches. “You weren’t lying when you said you were looking for your brother,” he realises and swallows heavily.

“Gabriel... .the archangel?” Sam splutters.

“Guilty,” Gabriel affirms. “Okay, this is all very touching, but maybe you can have your own little sob fest later, Castiel. Get to work,” he orders, and tosses his brother a small knife, pulling out another one for himself.

Dean moves quickly, but not as quickly as Castiel. He is ready to put a bullet through Castiel’s head – and Castiel is sure he wouldn’t miss, because he is a good shot – but he never pulls the trigger, because Castiel has already raised the knife to his wrists and slit the arteries, and blood is pouring all over his forearms and hands. Someone makes a strangled sound at the sight of all that blood, and he thinks he hears Ben retch. He doesn’t pay them heed, merely scoops up as much gore as possible with his fingers and begins to draw sigils on the walls.

“Stop!” Dean hollers.

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, Winchester, keep it together. Do you really think I just saved your asses to poke your insides with a tiny, blunt shiv?”

“You-“

“Shut your cakehole while we’re working, or do you want Zachariah and his minions to break down the door in... ah, probably about five minutes?” Gabriel snaps and waves his hand, before he slides the knife over his wrist as well.

From the way Dean’s hand flies to his throat, Castiel suspects he has just taken the humans’ voices away. He throws his brother a scolding look, finishes his sigils and heals his vessel’s wound, wiping away all the bloodstains in the process.

“Castiel,” Gabriel says, not looking up from his work, “seriously, you need to learn how to mask your grace better, like, years ago.” He stretches out his arm to touch Castiel’s forehead, and Castiel gasps when his grace is suddenly forced under a thick, impenetrable cloak that stretches out all over it. The feeling is less uncomfortable than he expected it to be: there are no further constraints, no smothering walls around him to make his wings cramp. The layer just gently smoothes over his grace, coating everything, stretching with every movement it makes. “Better. Go and put the basic sigils up in the rest of the house too, will you? Preferably before they cut you off and you’re not longer able to heal your meat suit.”

“Of course,” Castiel answers promptly. Taking orders from his brother almost makes him forget what he has just done. It’s like he is back in Heaven, doing his job, knowing who he is. It makes him feel safer. Still, he glances at the group of humans first. It seems that Gabriel has not only taken their voices away but also frozen them on the spot. That, of course, doesn’t stop them from displaying various states of rage, fear, puzzlement and hatred. “ _Gabriel_ ,” he chides. This is taking it too far.

“Oh don’t look at me like that!” Gabriel complains, but complies. He snaps his fingers almost absentmindedly, his concentration still on the complicated succession of letters and symbols now covering almost the entire length of the wall. “If any of you yahoos try to shoot me I’ll turn all your weapons into skunks, is that clear?”

Castiel leaves, then, before he can give in to the temptation to look at Dean and assess his reaction, or before Dean can confront him. It’s probably better this way. Of course, the confrontation is inevitable, and it will not get any easier to go through it if he puts it off, but he thinks that right now he would not be able to face Dean and his anger, his betrayal, or the shattered fragments of what he had thought was an honest friendship. He knows already that Dean is not a forgiving person, especially when someone close to him betrays his trust. Despite the fact that Castiel and Gabriel have saved their lives, Dean has every reason to hate them.

Castiel has known this would happen if Dean were to find out his true identity, but it doesn’t mean he was prepared for this day. This, combined with the revelation that his brother has been right in front of him all this time, has him trembling. Gabriel must despise his kin very much if he is willing to go to such lengths to deceive them and hide from them. It’s beyond belief that he would turn into a pagan god, become the very personification of blasphemy, and send his brother away without remorse. But he has.

A shaky, breathless laugh bubbles up inside him and stumbles from his lips. Apparently, his mission was doomed to fail from the beginning, and all of Zachariah’s fears were valid: Gabriel has allied with the humans. Not that it matters anymore. Who cares about a failed mission when there something much graver to consider?

There is some irony in this, Castiel thinks almost bitterly: he was so dead set on ensuring his brother wouldn’t Fall from grace and support the humans, and Castiel ends disobeying and Falling instead.

Because he cannot stand the weight of his own thoughts, Castiel busies himself putting sigils on every single room of the house they are currently in. Apparently, it’s an old and deserted hunter’s home base; every windowsill and doorframe are thickly covered in salt, and Castiel detects the outlines of a devil’s trap where the rug has buckled and moved a little. Everything is in a mess, loose papers, books, glasses and rubbish covering the floor. When he has finished the ground and top floor he follows the stairs down to the basement. Down here it’s easier to block out the agitated voices coming from the living room, and Castiel thinks he could do with some more time for himself.

The basement is very dark, and not as deserted as he had hoped. It’s just his luck that he would run into the person he wants to see the least now. He hears the now-familiar noise of a gun cocking, and without actually seeing it, he knows it is pointed at him. Of course. They are alone in here, who else would he be aiming at?

He sighs. “You should put the gun down,” he advises mildly. “You know you cannot kill me with it.”

“No,” Dean snarls. “But I can fucking well hurt you with it, you son of a bitch!”

Castiel takes another step towards him. Dean reacts quickly to the movement, taking a step back, and yes, the gun is definitely pointed at his head now. “Don’t you dare come near me!”

“Dean,” Castiel says, as levelly as possible, which is not quite as easy as it used to be, “if I wanted you dead, I could have killed you a thousand times already.”

To his credit, Dean Winchester doesn’t even so much as flinch. If anything, the comment, as rational and true as it is, only seems to fuel his anger. “Are you trying to threaten me? What is this supposed to be, a friggin’ demonstration of power?”

Dean is completely missing the point. Castiel feels the strong urge to roll his eyes, and if that isn’t proof of how human he has become then he doesn’t know what is. “Dean,” he tries again, “I am by no means trying to threaten you, or harm you, in any way. I am merely stating a fact. The only creature belonging to this group more powerful than me is Gabriel, but we both know he could not have protected you. We spent plenty of time alone, during which I more than once had the opportunity to kill you without him noticing or arriving in time. I could have told Zachariah of your location. I could have had you all destroyed. And yet here you stand, without a scratch on you, because I _chose to protect you_.”

His voice is trembling slightly now. Dean still hasn’t put the gun down – not that it matters, aside from feeling like they could have a more reasonable conversation with it being safely tucked away – but he doesn’t look quite as murderous as before. He looks... conflicted, to say the least. Castiel knows that about him now. He knows well enough that Dean puts on a mask of indifference and steel and pretends that he is fearless, but his eyes betray everything. Right now, Castiel can see the internal battle he is fighting. There is a part of him, the ever-wary hunter part, that mindlessly hates Castiel, that has all his alarms ringing and urges Dean to find a way to destroy the supernatural being in front of him. There’s another part that desperately wants to believe that the man he considered to be his friend is not his enemy, has not betrayed him.

“I just killed two angels.” Castiel’s voice is quiet and grave, and he cannot prevent the regret and grief from seeping through the vowels. “These were my brothers. My _family_. I went against a direct order of Heaven, and now all its forces will seek to destroy me. I did it to protect you, and I do not regret my actions.” He shakes his head. “I know you are angry at me. You have every right to be angry at me for not telling you the truth about my identity. But you have no right, none at all, to hate me just for what I am, or to question my or Gabriel’s loyalties. Not after what I just did. Not after what Gabriel has done to protect you over the last years.”

He doesn’t succeed in getting a reaction out of Dean aside from a tormented twitch of his lips, pressed into a thin line. Castiel looks away. “Maybe I should leave. It would serve well to distract the attention from you. You could find a new place to stay while they are occupied hunting me.”

“You’re not going anywhere, little bro.” Gabriel has appeared out of nowhere. His voice is perfectly nonchalant, as always, but there is a tightness to his eyes that clashes with his usual trickster image. He looks more like the archangel than the pagan god, more like Castiel remembers him, before he left. Somehow this look feels almost wrong on him now. “We aren’t feeding you to the wolves.”

“I wasn’t implying that you would do that.”

“I ain’t letting you sacrifice yourself either, Castiel,” his brother says sharply. “Get that thought out of your head right now. Dean, put the gun down for a minute and calm the fuck down. We need to have a little chat.”

“Sam was right all along, you know? We never should have trusted you.”

“Oh _please_ , don’t thank me for saving your pretty little asses yet again, I can’t stand that much praise. You are very welcome.”

“Dean,” Sam’s quiet voice cuts through the air before his older brother can retort. He slowly trudges down the stairs with a flashlight in his hands. “I think we should hear them out.”

“What the hell, Sammy?”

“Look, I don’t like this either, but it’s true. You said it yourself, these angels were gonna kill us all. They saved our lives. Lo- Gabriel more than once. I think they owe us an explanation, and we owe it to them to listen.”

“Nicely said, sasquatch.” Gabriel is grinning again, and pats the much bigger man on the shoulder before twirling around and, with a snap of his fingers, turning the lights on and flooding the room with light. Another snap, and a large, fiery red sofa is standing in the middle of all the rubble and chaos. “What?” Gabriel shrugs when he sees their bewildered stares. “This is gonna take a while, so we might as well get comfortable. Oh, and before I forget it -” he cuts himself off and slams his palms against the humans’ ribs. Both men gasp and stumble backwards.

“What did you-“

“Zachariah saw you, Dean. He knows who you are, and now that he knows that, he will come looking for you. Specifically for you, I mean. Angels can track soul signals. The hex bag and the spell Cas gave you won’t be nearly enough to protect you, and even the stuff I painted upstairs can only do so much. So I just marked you with protective sigils to hide you from every angel in existence.”

“You _branded_ us with them?”

“No, I carved them into your ribs,” Gabriel says, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. “Remind me to give the rest a set, too, when we’re finished here. And Christ, sit down, or I’ll get a stiff neck from looking up at you all the time.”

Castiel can see Dean and Sam’s hesitation, but in the end, Sam walks over and slowly lowers himself between the cushions, and Dean follows suit. Sam is surprisingly calm and composed, Castiel muses, for someone who has just not only lost his lover but also found out some rather earth-shattering revelations about two persons he never would have suspected to belong to the enemy race. His control over his emotions is amazing. Maybe this is how he manages to function that well in a world that is upside-down, torn and twisted: he detaches himself from his feelings to think logically and do what must be done.

“I am very sorry for your loss,” he says sincerely as he sits down beside him. “I wish we had gotten there in time to save Ruby’s life.”

Sam blinks at him and swallows, a shadow ghosting over his face. “Ruby was a demon. Aren’t you like... supposed to hate her?”

“She was,” Castiel nods, “but she was different. And I... I am not like my brothers either.”    

Gabriel snorts and flops back onto the couch. “Understatement of the _century_. You always were an oddball.”

“I will take that as a compliment.”

“Not sure if being completely batshit crazy is a positive thing, but hey, I’ve been hanging with the Winchesters for years now, so I suppose I have no room to talk. That was definitely the craziest idea I ever had, and I have done a _lot_ of crazy stuff.”

“I assume the rumours about Fenrir, Sleipnir and Jörmungandr are true, then?”

Gabriel’s mouth falls open. “Little brother, you did _not_ just ask me about my sex life and resulting monster babies.”

Castiel shrugs. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Um... .could we focus?” Sam looks mildly disturbed.

“I have no idea what they’re talking about, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know,” Dean says. “So I’m with Sam on this one. Why don’t you start at the beginning? Like, what did your father say when you ran off and joined the pagans? I don’t think he was all that thrilled.”

Gabriel’s face shuts down immediately. “Daddy doesn’t say anything about anything,” he says, and bitterness is tinting his words. “Why do you think we’re in this mess in the first place?”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Castiel inhales sharply. “I knew,” he mutters. “I knew this was not His will. These orders could never come from our Father.”

“So, you’re saying God has nothing to do with this?” Sam waves his hand around as if trying to emphasize that with ‘this’ he actually means ‘the world ending’. “So what, he is not in Heaven anymore? Or he just doesn’t care?”

“Can’t say I’ve been talking to him lately,” Gabriel shrugs, “but from what I know, Dad’s been AWOL for a loooong time. If he were giving the orders, the apocalypse would go down the way it was written.”

“So basically you’re saying that this is angels... enjoying smashing up Daddy’s toys because he’s not home enough and they want to get his attention?” Dean sounds incredulous.

“Interesting way of looking at it. True, too, probably, but there’s more to it.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel says quietly, “if this war is not God’s will, why doesn’t He stop it? And where are the orders coming from? Michael and Raphael... why haven’t they intervened?”

“Beats me. My guess is that this is Raphael’s doing. He always was a raging jackass, if you ask me. Mike wouldn’t come up with that idea, he’d wait for Dad to give him orders to follow. He always was a good, obedient little son. I’d say he’s probably only backing this up because the end of the world _was_ supposed to come with this generation anyway, and because he thinks he has to clean up what these two screwed up.” He jerks his head into the direction of Sam and Dean.

“What?” Sam sputters.

“What are you talking about?” Castiel frowns.

Gabriel blinks, first at him, then at the Winchesters. “You don’t know, huh?” he says. “Wow, Cas, you’d think they’d give some apocalypse briefing upstairs, but I guess they still like keeping secrets from regular soldiers. Seriously, they could at least tell you that the world was supposed to end with these mud monkeys.”

“Come again?” Dean says.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Gabriel throws his hands in the air. “Fine. Don’t make me recite the whole of Revelation for you, because you can damn well read that yourself. I’m just going to assume that at least Sam has some basic knowledge and can fill in Dean’s huge gaps later. So, the apocalypse is supposed to go down, right? Celebrity death match between Michael and Lucifer, Michael wins, blah blah blah. But of course, they’re angels, and to go to earth and fight they need vessels. You two,” he says, jabbing a finger at them, “are their vessels.”

“What?”

“Sam, there’s a reason Azazel fed you demon blood when you were a toddler, and it wasn’t just to lead hell’s army in this prize fight.”

“But... but he gave the blood to a bunch of other kids, too. Why me? Why us?”

“Yeah, but the others were really only there to be potential generals. You on the other hand... you’re his true vessel. Of course, you’d have to hork down gallons of demon blood to contain my brother without combusting, but ‘as it is in Heaven, so it shall be on earth’. You’re much more than Michael and Lucy than you think, and you’re direct descendants of Cain and Abel, so the gist of it that one brother is meant to kill the other. But Lucifer is still in Hell, because the first seal was never broken.”

“I’m... guessing you’re not talking about the animal here,” Dean says.

“Think of the seals as locks on a door,” Castiel explains. “If you manage to break sixty-six of them, the devil walks free.” This, he knows. Every angel knows that. He hadn’t known about anything else his brother has been revealing, though.

“And that he isn’t is your fault,” Gabriel picks off his explanation. “The first seal breaks when the Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell. You father was supposed to break the first seal, but hey, you opened up a friggin devil’s gate and the stubborn son of a bitch climbed out. It looked like the plans were screwed but oh, Dean-o had sold his sold to save his brother, so no one despairs, because hey, we can just make him break the seal and raise him from Hell once he’s done his first job, right? He can still be Mikey’s vessel and bring paradise on earth.” Gabriel shakes his head in something that Castiel thinks is a mixture of admiration, amusement and bafflement. “And then you went ahead and killed Lilith and managed to wriggle yourself out of the deal. Which brings us to this mess.”

“How so?” Sam asks.

“I haven’t been home in several millennia, but it’s not hard to guess that they are desperate... and tired. They think they need to bring on the apocalypse to end it all, be relieved of their duties, don’t have to care about measly whiny creatures anymore... They would have had to wait for several more centuries to get the two bloodlines combined in two brothers again. Apparently, they didn’t feel like waiting that long.”

“You’re saying that we cancelled the party Dad planned so they decided to throw their own little apocalypse?” Dean shakes his head. “I don’t believe this. You’re saying that it’s our fault that-”

“Gabriel said no such thing,” Castiel interrupts quickly. He notices, absentmindedly, that his hands are trembling slightly. _This_ is what his brothers had planned? And this is what they choose to do after it failed? “None of this is your fault. What our kin decided to do... this war, this has nothing to do with you.”

“But we were supposed to bring the apocalypse,” Sam says, barely managing to get the words out. “The world was gonna end because of us, and we stopped it, without knowing, and now... now the world is ending because we stopped the divine apocalypse.”

Gabriel throws him a searching, sober look. “Dear God, you do like to beat yourself up over things you have absolutely no control over, don’t you?”

“Are you even allowed to blaspheme?”

“Dude,” Gabriel says, rolling his eyes. “I skipped out of Heaven. I turned into a pagan god. I’ve committed just about every deadly sin and broken each and every single one of the Ten Commandments. I am a walking blasphemy. If Dad ever decides to come back into the game, a foul mouth is the least I have to worry about.”

“Okay.” Dean clears his throat. “So that was an... um... interesting story. But it doesn’t really explain anything. It doesn’t explain why you’re here, what the hell you want, or why we are supposed to trust you.”

“I-“ Castiel opens his mouth to speak, but suddenly, a sharp, searing pain rips through his grace and he gasps for air. The next thing he knows, he is lying on the cold floor, his hands clutching his abdomen where the pain is slowly fading to a dull throb but still feeling the aftershocks ripple through him.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice sounds distant, and worried. “Cas?””

Castiel blinks until his vision becomes clear and he can distinguish his brother’s features again. “Well,” he says grimly, “that took them surprisingly long. They’ve gotten slow.”

“What the hell is going on with him, Gabriel?” Dean demands, enraged.

“I’m fine,” Castiel breathes and lets Gabriel pull him to his feet again.

The initial crippling pain is fading, only to leave behind something that feels worse. He can feel it now, the hole carved into his grace, the incredibly huge void his brothers leave behind. Their absence from him makes him want to scream, and he wonders how any angel can endure it. He thought it was bad before, when he came down to earth two weeks ago and had to distance his grace from the host, but this? This is pure agony and grief that leaves him shuddering and cold. He tries not to show his misery, because he doesn’t want anyone’s pity – after all, he knew what the consequences would be for him, although he hadn’t realised how bad it would be, hadn’t realised that right now he would inwardly be screaming that he’d rather be dead than experience this – and because he doesn’t want to worry Gabriel. Judging from the looks Sam, Dean and Gabriel are giving him, he fails miserably.

“Like hell you are. What was that?” Dean huffs.

“They cut him off,” Gabriel informs him brusquely.

“Cut him off from what?”

“Heaven. Congratulations, bro, you are officially a fallen angel.” His tone contradicts his cheery smile.

“Wait, what?” Sam asks.

“Most of angels’ power comes from Heaven,” Castiel explains once he gets his breath back. “Being cut off means I will no longer hear my brothers communicate, nor will I be able to replenish my strength as I could before. There are a lot of things I will not be able to do any longer, and the more I use my grace, the faster it will deplete.” He swallows. “Also, it means that I am now an outcast, and hunted.”

Dean and Sam look as if he struck them in the face.

“What did you expect to be the consequences for rebelling against orders and killing members of your own garrison?” Gabriel asks tightly.

“They kicked you out of Heaven?”

“It could have been much worse,” Castiel says, trying to sound nonchalant. “To be honest, I had not expected to make it out of this fight alive.” He stops, remembering the look on Yofiel’s face. Uriel’s screams. The blinding light as they died, the black shadows of their wings burned into the soil. “Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“Don’t say that!” Gabriel says vehemently and grimaces. “I guess we can be lucky Zachariah didn’t recognise me, or they would’ve cut me off too.”

“If you really ran away such a long time ago, how come you still have so much power anyway?” Sam asks curiously.

“One: I’m an _archangel_. If you think the angels you’ve run into before were strong, then think again. Two: I ran away, I didn’t disobey. Well, not that they know, at least.” Gabriel shrugs. “Leaving Heaven for a while doesn’t mean that you won’t be welcomed back with open arms. Or maybe they assumed I was dead, I don’t know. But the moment they find out I’m helping you, we’ll be in big trouble.”

“I think we’re in trouble already,” Dean says. He is staring at Castiel with an indecipherable expression.

“We will find a way to stop this,” Castiel says firmly.

“What, stop the entire Host from going after us and destroying the world?” Gabriel snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that, bro. Two of us against all of them, that’s awesome. How exactly are you gonna pull that off again? Family counselling? Group hugs? Roll calls to their oh so gentle and secretly crying hearts?”

“We can find a way,” Castiel repeats, choosing to ignore the jab.

“Right, if you find a way to either knock some sense into them or kick them off this planet without killing them, let me know. Until then, we should lie low. Very, very low. And don’t you dare-” he continues, glaring at Dean who looks like he is about to say something very impolite, “don’t you _dare_ say what you’re thinking of saying. Don’t you dare demand that I stand up and fight against my brothers.”

“Oh so you’re just going to let them burn down the rest of the planet, are you?”

Castiel is momentarily distracted by the light bulb bursting in tiny little pieces above their heads, so he doesn’t see Gabriel move until he has already hauled Dean to his feet by his collar. Despite the height difference it is more than obvious who is threatening and who is being threatened. Gabriel looks absolutely furious, and Castiel is acutely aware of the raw, savage power rolling off his skin. Judging from the strangled gasp that escapes Dean, he feels it too. “You’re a fucking hypocrite, Winchester, you know that? You wouldn’t kill your brother when you thought he was infected with a demonic virus, you wouldn’t kill him when they told you he was supposed to be the Antichrist, you would rather have seen the end of the world before you laid a hand on Sam, and you dare to look down on me for refusing to harm them? I. Will not. Kill. My. Brothers.”

Castiel is sure the archangel doesn’t miss the way he flinches at these words, because his anger seems to deflate somehow, being replaced with a mixture of pain and sorrow and sympathy when he throws him a furtive glance. It’s an infinite relief to see no trace of hatred in his brother’s eyes, just an apology, and sadness. He knows Gabriel didn’t mean it like a reproach for him, but the words still cut deep. He used to be like this. He used to think he could never kill one of his brothers. Except now Gabriel, who has abandoned Heaven and his duties and remade himself as a pagan deity, who certainly tries not to remember his brethren, is the one who still stays true to his words while Castiel has thrown it all away in a heartbeat.

Dean clears his throat and flashes a nervous smile. “I could make a joke about how it’s impossible not to look down on you from my perspective, but I guess this isn’t the time.”

Gabriel glowers, but loosens his grip on Dean’s shirt. “You think I haven’t tried to stop this?” he asks, and now he just sounds desperate and broken. “You think I haven’t tried? What exactly do you think my stunt at Mystery Spot was about, huh? I was trying to make sure Sam wouldn’t go off the deep end, make sure he wouldn’t turn into someone who’d let the devil wear him to prom. And when you went ahead and iced Lilith I thought it was over, I thought it was safe. And then _this_ shit started and I knew there was nothing, absolutely nothing I could do to stop it.”

“But you’re an archangel,” Sam interjects desperately.

Gabriel lets out a bitter laugh and releases Dean, who falls straight back onto the couch with a soft yelp. “Castiel, you mind explaining those two muttonheads exactly why you’re here? In extenso, if you please.”

Castiel looks at his hands, because he isn’t sure whether he can stand facing the undivided attention of all three of them. “I... Zachariah called me to him, shortly before we I came down to earth. He informed me, very briefly, about the troubles some resistance groups were causing, mostly in the Four State Area, and that they were unable to find and vanquish them. He had reached the conclusion that it was possible Gabriel had something to do with this. He hadn’t been in Heaven for a very long time, but we knew he wasn’t dead, so he had to be on earth. My superiors feared that he might have allied himself with you and given you the means to hide from the host, and possibly fight it, or that he was at least very close to doing so. That he was Falling.” He takes a deep breath. “My mission was to find him and prevent this from happening. And, most importantly, to convince him to come back home.”

“And what did good old Zach tell you to do if I threw a little tantrum and stamped my foot and refused to leave? Or, worse even, if you did find me sitting in a basement conspiring against my beloved family?”

“In that case, I was to inform him so that he could send Michael and Raphael,” Castiel says.

“That’s what I thought.” Gabriel smiles, but it’s not very cheerful. “You want to be left alone, they send the big brothers after you so they can _drag_ your ass back to Heaven and make sure you never leave again. I’m fabulous, but not good enough to hold my own against two archangels. I crawl out of my hole, we are all uber-boned.”

The acrimony in his voice makes it impossible for Castiel to hold back the question he has wanted to ask forever. “Why did you leave?” he chokes. “Brother, why did you leave us?”

“Because I couldn’t take it anymore,” Gabriel answers honestly. “I couldn’t keep watching my brothers constantly tearing at each other’s throats.” He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “Don’t you ever get tired of the fighting?”     

Castiel tilts his head. “This is why you wouldn’t reveal yourself to me,” he realises, “nor tell them about my identity.” He thinks, awed and amazed, that he has never met an angel who loves his brothers as much as Gabriel does. That he would run and hide because he couldn’t bear the destruction and violence in his family when he knew he couldn’t put an end to it. That he would rather be alone, exiled, than to harm any of his brothers or watch them be harmed. He could have removed the threat that Castiel posed with ease, but he didn’t, because he was trying to do the impossible and save both the world and his kin.

The archangel looks vaguely embarrassed. “You were never much of a threat, little brother. You always liked humanity way too much. I knew you weren’t going to bust us.”

“No, you didn’t,” Castiel contradicts, thinking of how only a few weeks ago nothing mattered more to him than completing his mission successfully and doing everything in his power to serve Heaven.

“Yeah, I did. You forget that I’ve known you since you were nothing more than a little fluffy ball of feathers. I taught you how to fly.”

Castiel’s head jerks up and he stares at Gabriel in bewilderment. “I do not remember that,” he says quietly.

Gabriel shrugs. “Nah, you wouldn’t. Anyway, point stands. Most loyal angel in all of creation? Sure. But also possibly the only one who uses his brain to think outside of simple orders and on top of that has an insatiable curiosity for everything and a special fondness for humans? Your resentment for this war was practically written on your forehead. I _knew_ you’d fall in love with them the moment you met them. Well... or maybe just one,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows, “but ... same result.”

Castiel blinks helplessly, because he has absolutely no idea what Gabriel is talking about, and he can see Dean and Sam giving him equally confused looks, mixed with a strange kind of fascination. Their conversation must sound strange to them, he supposes, just as alien and unintelligible as humans were – and still are in some ways – to him. They haven’t even tried to interrupt them, which is surprising in itself, because Dean is usually the first to jump in. Perhaps he simply does not know what to make of the new information. Sam, on the other hand, seems to be hesitantly optimistic.

“So, can I sum this up?” Sam says. “Gabriel left Heaven and decided he liked earth so much better that he doesn’t even want to go back now that there is not much of earth left, and Castiel, who was sent to find him, wants to stick around instead, too?”

“You forgot the part where he can’t go back because they cut him off,” Dean says, “but I think that was the bottom line.”

Castiel is honestly taken aback that Dean thinks this part so important. He certainly does, but Dean is a human who shouldn’t be able to understand the impact of this, the extend of the consequences of the choice he has made. It is strange that Dean focuses on this instead of the part where they are still angels and he clearly still refuses to trust them. Then again, the revelation strikes him, Dean is all about family, and even if the angels are something strange to him, the concept of family is the same. He must have sensed the importance of this for Gabriel and Castiel in the conversation they had, how much they love their brothers despite acting against the will of Heaven. He must know, certainly, how hard it is to turn your back on your own flesh and blood. He might never fully understand it, but he can grasp a little of the magnitude of the sacrifices they have made.

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I have no idea what to make of that or where to go from here,” he confesses. “I’m kind of willing to, ah, believe that you’re not trying to screw us over at the moment but... ”

“But what? You still don’t trust us because we’re angels?”

“I don’t know.” Dean runs a hand over his face, clearly distraught, despite his best efforts not to let any emotions show. “I don’t know what to think.”

“I do,” Sam says quietly and all the attention turns to him. “I think I trust them.”

“No offense, Sammy, but you kind of have a track record for working with mon- ah... ”

Gabriel looks mildly amused by Dean’s struggle for words. “You can say monsters, you know, I’m not _that_ delicate, and I’ve been called worse. I’m not gonna smite you for it.”

Sam, on the other hand, looks irritated. “Yes, Dean, and I haven’t been wrong so far, have I? Look, I still don’t know why he did it, but... Gabriel here has been looking out for us for years. Cas has, too, from the second he walked into the hideout. It’s not like they gain anything from it. They could probably kill us with a _thought_ if they wanted to, so I’m gonna go out on a limb and say we’d better trust them, because right now, their help is kinda essential. We won’t last six months without them.”

“I believe you are underestimating yourself,” Castiel says, at the same time that Gabriel snorts and says “You won’t last a week.” He shoots his brother a scolding look, to which Gabriel responds by pretending to zip his mouth shut, so he decides to ignore him and continues. “However, we do face a serious issue. This house cannot be a permanent residence. It is not even close to large enough to house all of you and it is in a strategically disadvantageous area.”

Gabriel shrugs. “Dunno. Out in the open is probably the last place our bros are looking for us now. And I can tweak the size, no biggie. But yeah, we should probably expand the protected area, put up sigils at least over the width and length of the salvage yard.”

“Bobby’s gonna be pissed if you screw with his house,” Sam comments, eyebrows raised.

“It’s the end of the world, tell the man to gain some fucking perspective,” Gabriel retorts and turns to face Castiel. “Can you take care of giving everyone a set of these lovely rib carvings while I pop outside?”

Castiel nods solemnly. “Of course.”

A snap of his fingers and the rustling of feathers, and Gabriel is gone. Dean shifts uncomfortably, then gruffs out “okay, let’s go,” and heads up the stairs. When they reach the living room, everyone is eerily silent. Everything about the way the humans look at him oozes of wordless accusations, and Castiel can’t blame them.

“Okay, everyone stay calm,” Sam says levelly before anyone can question that the brothers show up with Castiel by his side. “We’re all on the same side here.”

“You sure about that?” Ellen asks, all business and hunter attitude.

“Yeah,” Sam says after a second.

Gabriel chooses that exact moment to reappear with Ruby’s body in his arms, which makes everyone jump. He lowers her corpse on the couch with more gentleness than Castiel thought possible and turns to face Sam. “I picked up some supplies along the way,” he says quietly, “they’re downstairs.” What he doesn’t say, Castiel thinks, is _I brought her so that we can mourn her._ He doesn’t have to, because everyone understands anyway. Sam bites his lip and swallows, and when he nods the gratitude is clear on his face.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, and Gabriel shrugs in what can only be described as a _yeah don’t mention it_ sort of way. Despite his nonchalance, it is obvious that Ruby’s death doesn’t leave him unaffected.

It is strange, he muses, the friendships that can be formed in impossible situations. Angels and demons, working together, loving together, befriending each other. He never would have thought this was possible and yet here they are.

“Well then,” Gabriel says with fake enthusiasm, “I guess I’ll be outside then, putting up the sigils that will lock me and Cas inside this merry little salvage yard.” Everyone, minus Castiel, stares at him. He shrugs. “No angels comes in, no angels gets out. Really don’t understand why you’re looking so surprised.”

He zaps himself away again. This time, Jo is the first to speak up. “Okay,” she says. “What do we do now?”

“I will give you additional protective sigils,” Castiel offers, “that will make sure the heavenly host can’t find you.” He hesitates a moment. “It will hurt a little. I will put them on your ribs so they cannot be unmade.”

“It’s okay,” Sam appeases. “Gabriel already gave us a set each. Nothing to worry about, I promise.”

“Alright then,” Bobby says, stepping forward. “You can start with me.”

Castiel lays his palm on the old hunter’s chest and does exactly that.

After that, it’s easy. Jo and Ellen are the next ones who step up willingly and since no one drops dead, the rest soon loses a little of their suspicion. He is just about to mark Anna when Gabriel returns, dragging down the sleeve of his shirt over his forearm and, with a flick of his wrist wipes the clothes free of blood. “Not sure if that’s a good idea, bro,” he says casually. Castiel stops and frowns.

“Look at her.”

Castiel does. For a moment, he sees nothing out of the ordinary. The he feels his eyes widen in realisation. “Oh,” he breathes and thinks he must have been blind not to see it in the first place. “This explains a lot.”

“What?” Anna asks, taking a cautious step backwards.

“Why you could hear the Host and understand what they were saying.”

“Without having your eardrums shattered,” Gabriel adds unhelpfully and holds up a hand. “Hold on a sec,” he says and searches the pockets of his jeans. “Where did I... ah, here.” He pulls out a small amulet, made of glass. Inside, the cut-out grace of a fallen angel is swirling, pulsating, radiating bright white light. “You might want this back,” he says. “Anael.”

In the silence that follows one can almost hear the men’s hearts beating.

“I am not sure,” Castiel ventures, ”whether this was the most opportune moment for another revelation.”

Gabriel snorts. “I’m pretty sure the shock would have been just as big later, and hey, we’re on a roll so we might as well get it over with.” He holds the vial out to Anna, who is staring at it with wide eyes. “You can take it or you can leave it, your choice. I’m not even saying you should take your grace back in. Hell, I’m not even sure your body could hold it in, because as hot as that piece of ass is, it’s not built to hold in an angel.”

“Um,” Dean speaks up weakly, “could anyone please explain what the hell is going on?”

“I Fell,” Anna says suddenly, abruptly. “I remember now.”

“You what?”

“She is human, if that is what concerns you,” Castiel interrupts. “Or at least she is now, although she wasn’t always. We were members of the same garrison. Twenty-five years ago, she ripped out her grace and fell to earth, to live as a human.”

“You can do that?” Sam asks. “Become human, just like that?”

“’Just like that’ doesn’t cover it,” Anna replies. “It’s painful. Really painful. But yes, it’s possible. Uncommon, but not unheard of.” She looks at Gabriel, and hesitantly takes the amulet. “Where did you find it?”

“Kentucky. Figured it would be better if I took it than if the God squad got their hands on it.”

She swallows. “I’m not sure whether I want it back, but I suppose you will need me to become Anael again if you plan to fight back.”

“Uh,” Gabriel scratches his head, “I don’t think we’re quite there yet. We don’t even have a plan on how to do this so... take your time. No rush.”

Anna nods.

Dean runs a hand over his face. “I’m gonna need a drink. Or two. Or three.”

“I think,” Castiel says, quietly gesturing towards Ruby’s lifeless body on the couch, “there is something we should do first.”

 ∞

The pyre is still simmering with heat and embers when Dean finally gets his much desired glass of whiskey. They have given Ruby a hunter’s last goodbye, which, despite her being a creature they usually would have wanted to kill, seems oddly appropriate. Sam is still outside, staring into the dying flames, and while everyone else has retreated inside the house to give him some privacy, Dean is sitting down on the porch, giving his brother silent support and strength from afar. Castiel is sure that Dean doesn’t want to talk to him any more than the others do – most have been doing their best to avoid him and Gabriel, aside from Jo, who seems to take the news with astonishing calmness and is currently the only one who dares go near Anna – but Gabriel had taken one long, sharp look at him, sighed dramatically and then proceeded to shove him towards the door, saying “You look like a kicked puppy, just go and talk to him already before I puke,” so he follows his brother’s advice.

Dean is obviously less than thrilled when Castiel sits down next to him, but he doesn’t flinch nor tell him to leave. Castiel takes that as a good sign, even though he can still feel Dean’s anger. He hasn’t expected anything else. It will take a long time for Dean to forgive him. Maybe he never will. Castiel remembers Sam telling him that Dean has trust issues the size of Canada, and what they have now is nothing but a reluctant truce of sorts because Dean is out of options and has to work with what he has, no matter how much he hates it.

“Dean,” he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Dean gruffs. “For lying to me? For your shitty brothers who think destroying the world is fun?”

“For all of it.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Cas. Hell, I don’t even know why you’re here.”

“I am here because I am trying to protect you,” he says levelly. “Because my brothers are wrong and you showed me that this world, that humanity is worth saving.”

Dean _hmpfs_ and takes another sip.

“You’re a good man, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says. “I know you don’t trust me at this moment, and I suppose it doesn’t really matter, but you should know that my decision to stand on your side can never be unmade. There is no way back for me now. I Fell, I Fell because of you, and I do not regret it.”

It is true. The ache is still there, ever-prominent and a constant reminder of what he has lost, of what he has thrown away, probably without gaining anything; but if he were faced with the decision again, he would make the same call. He doesn’t doubt that it was the right thing to do. He doesn’t doubt, not for a second, that Dean is worth it. They all are.

Dean chokes a little on his whiskey. “Dammit, dude, you don’t say shit like that.”

Castiel blinks in confusion, but Dean doesn’t elaborate, just continues to stare at his brother’s back. The silence between them stretches, and yet it feels less heavy than before. Still, Castiel considers going back inside to consult with Gabriel about their next move when Dean finally speaks up again.

“It actually explains a lot,” he murmurs. “You being an angel, I mean. No one could possibly be that fucking clueless about pop culture references, not even someone who was brought up by a nutcase, hyper-religious family. And everything else, too.”

Castiel is tempted to ask what ‘everything else’ means, but Sam has walked up to them without them noticing and chimes in. “And Gabriel’s mood swings. Always thought that guy was bipolar. I guess having a split personality explains it.”

Castiel shakes his head. “What he has done...becoming something he wasn’t before, something he wasn’t meant to be... I never would have believed it was possible. No one has ever done it before. We – angels – are made to be eternal. Unchanging.  Not susceptible to emotions. But I imagine this notion was proved to be wrong a long time ago. There have always been angels who decide to Fall, few and far between as they are, but Gabriel... Gabriel is not like any of them.”

“I’d give him a cookie for being special, but I don’t think I want to risk the ego boost,” Sam comments dryly.

“Sam,” Castiel says, because he might not be human but he knows repression when he sees it. “I am sincerely sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam says, to Castiel’s surprise. “Thanks, I guess.” He looks back to the pyre once more and when he turns around, there is a sort of finality to it that comes with the familiarity of losing the people you love that only hunters experience in this way. “I’ll be okay. What about you?”

Castiel blinks. “Me?”

“I’m no expert in grace stuff or anything, but you seemed pretty shaken up when they cut you off.”

Castiel thinks that Sam Winchester might be the kindest and most selfless human he has ever encountered. “I am fine,” he assures him, although he doesn’t know whether he is, or whether he will be. There are hardly any precedents of his situation.

The first angel in creation to Fall was, of course, Lucifer, but he is an archangel and was practically unaffected by his absence from Heaven, if his strength during the war before being cast into Hell is anything to go by. There are others who have Fallen and have been cut off, like him, but that was in the early days and all of them were Lucifer’s followers, joining his forces in Hell and turning into something dark and twisted. No angel has Fallen in this way for a very long time. Ever since his brothers stopped following the Lightbringer down, angels who Fell tore out their grace and became human, living and dying amongst them. It is easier that way, he supposes. Angels who Fall always make themselves enemies of Heaven and are hunted down, but without your grace, it is nigh impossible to be found. Gabriel still has access to all his power because he was never cut off. With Castiel, neither of them knows what will happen.

His powers will dwindle away, be diminished every time he uses his grace for anything, that much is certain. Aside from that – who knows? It is impossible to foretell what will happen when there is nothing but a minuscule spark of his essence left. Is there a part of him that is permanent, that will always stay? And if there isn’t, if he uses up the last bit of his grace, will he die? After all, he does not possess a soul, unlike Anna, who was born into a human body, her consciousness tightly woven into her soul. She is human with the echoes of her previous existence seared into her, but Castiel is nothing like her. Angels do not work that way. Nothing about him is human, except for the body he has forced himself into – a body that doesn’t even belong to him – and the nascent comprehension of a swirl of emotions and bodily sensations. He wonders, absentmindedly, if there will come a point at which he will actually need sustenance and rest. If there will come a time in which he will be entirely human and Heaven will be nothing but a faint memory.

He is jerked out of his musing when Dean snaps his fingers directly in front of his face. “Hey! Hey, dude, you with us?”

“I – yes.”

“You kind of spaced out for a second,” Dean says. “Or, you know, a minute.” He frowns in reluctant concern. “Your feather-assed brothers didn’t have anything to do with that, did they? They weren’t, I don’t know, mojo-ing you or anything?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No. I was merely... lost in thought.”

Dean’s eyebrows rise higher and higher and Castiel is convinced he will push further and ask again, but after a moment he merely nods curtly. “Alright then,” he says, stretches and gets to his feet before walking inside.

Castiel follows him with his eyes and thinks that while it might not be what he hoped for, it is better than what he expected. It is a start. 


	4. Chapter 4

The additional rooms Gabriel has created out of nowhere are impressive. He has brought an entirely new, two-storied wing into existence that appears to be based on a design of one of the fanciest hotels in Las Vegas. In accordance with that, Gabriel seems to be intent on providing every possible comfort and luxury that can fit into one place, possibly more for his own sake than the others. From what Castiel has gathered from the stories Gabriel told him of his life as a trickster, his brother enjoys nothing more than indulging in extravagance, not even bringing malefactors their justified penalty.

Castiel cannot help but think that Gabriel is going overboard, and although he knows that he is not alone in this opinion, he refrains from mentioning it. His brother is clearly enjoying himself and it is rather delightful to see him light up like this, as if he were in his element, swirling around with iridescent and boundless. It stands in such stark contrast to most of the other times Castiel has seen him in action that he can only stand and stare in wonder. He knows Gabriel as the fierce Angel of Justice, God’s left hand, the divine Messenger spreading his word. He remembers him and Michael being sent down to smoke out Sodom and Gomorrah.  He remembers him, sword drawn and blazing with glory, as they battled the Nephilim. He remembers all of this, and he remembers his laughter from happier days and the deep love for his brothers that lit up Heaven like the sun lights up the earth. The dichotomy was easy to understand when they were still in Heaven. Here on earth, the two sides of his personality seem impossible to combine.

Gabriel insists that he is not kind. Castiel has heard him talking to Sam about this, and he knows it is true. His brother has used humans as his toys for centuries and he has killed them in the most unimaginable and cruel ways and without a shred of regret, and Castiel suspects that it wasn’t always because they deserved it. It is the behaviour he would have expected of an archangel.

Seeing him like this is especially startling because it should not fit him so well. But it does. Gabriel is supposed to be a warrior, and he is, and at the same time, he manages to be... this. Something he cannot even put in words. An impossibly old being who is getting far too excited about small, human things. Someone who always feigns nonchalance and indifference but cares about this group of people far more than he lets on. Someone who creates rather than destroys.

Castiel thinks that maybe this side of him fits him better than the warrior he is supposed to be.

“Single rooms for everyone, of course with en-suite bathrooms,” Gabriel announces cheerfully when he finishes. “To be chosen at will. Knock yourselves out. “

Bobby eyes the wide corridor in front of him with a frown. “You sure that’s real?”

Gabriel shrugs. “Real enough.”

“And what the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Remember the chainsaw zombie I sent your way the first time we met?” Bobby nods, and Gabriel continues, “Not real, but real enough to kill you. And, just like the food I snap into existence, it’s not actually real but it’s real sustenance and you can survive on it. Any questions, chuckles?”

“Yeah, is it permanent? ‘Cause if we’re ever gonna live a normal life every again, I’m gonna kick you all out and I ain’t gonna be having an extra wing with friggin golden curtains attached to my house.”

Gabriel snorts. “Rest assured, in the unlikely case that we ever get out of this situation, I won’t keep this illusion up any longer than strictly necessary. Or, of course, if I bite the dust you’ll get rid of it even sooner.”

“Dude,” Ash calls from one of the rooms and, a second later, sticks his head out, “you seriously stacked copies of _Busty Asian Beauties_ on the nightstands?”

“Only the best for you, buddy.”

“You,” Ash says, “are awesome.”

Dean, on the other hand, looks appalled. “Please tell me you didn’t put them in every room.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Ben is _not_ old enough to see that.”

“Look at you, trying to be a reasonable parent,” Gabriel laughs. “No worries, bucko, I gave him comic books, although I have to say that it’s never too early to start sex-“

“Okay, stop that sentence right there. I’m so not discussing that with you, and if I see you mentioning any of that to the kid, I will kill you myself.”

“I get all tingly when you start throwing threats, Dean-o.”

“Gabriel,” Castiel admonishes.

“Spoilsport,” Gabriel huffs, but he is still glowing with excitement and pride that Castiel finds it hard to feel irked. Even the emptiness and jealousy that had momentarily gnawed at him when he watched his brother doing wonders he could never hope to perform ever again ebbs away.

“We should put a leash on your brother,” Dean tells him.

“I fear this will be all but impossible,” Castiel replies serenely. “But you are most welcome to try.”

Dean grins then and claps him on the shoulder and Castiel can feel his grace light up in joy.

Gabriel stares. “Wow,” he says eventually, when Dean is out of earshot, “you are disgustingly smitten.”

Castiel blinks. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” he says.

“Of course you don’t, you’re almost as oblivious as your favourite chucklehead. Only that it’s worse that he doesn’t get it, because you at least have the excuse of knowing absolutely fucking nothing about love whereas he’s just thick.”

“You should not speak of Dean in such a deprecatory manner,” Castiel says and Gabriel buries his face in his hands and groans, muttering something to himself that vaguely sounds like _God give me strength_.

“That,” he says when he raises his head again, “is _exactly_ what I am talking about.” He pats Castiel’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, you’ll understand eventually. But if you expect me to give you The Talk, then I’m fucking out of here.”

“Um,” Sam coughs behind them, “bad time?”

Gabriel beams. “Not at all. In fact, you are saving me from two emotionally stunted idiots and their truly pathetic love story.”

“O... kay.” Sam runs a hand through his hair. “I think I don’t want to know. Is it too early to ask you to hit the books and work out something against your brothers?”

It figures that Sam would bury himself in work. 

“It’s not too early to ask,” Castiel answers honestly, “but I do believe that it should not be our first priority.”

Sam frowns. “Then what do you think should be our first priority?”

Castiel shrugs. “We are safe here – for the time being. To devise a plan that will allow us to fight off my brothers without hurting them will take a long time. Months, possibly. We have the time for this, and we will come up with something, but there are more pressing matters at hand. Sustenance is a good example. The food Gabriel can provide is good enough for now, but I wouldn’t advise living on it for an extended period of time. Also, not being able to leave this place is a serious disadvantage. The solution we seek is most likely not to be found in Bobby’s books, although he has an extended library. Sooner or later, I fear, Gabriel and I will have to leave to search for new information,” he says. “We will need to find a way to modify the protective sigils so that the two of us, and only ever the two of us, can get past them.”

“Shouldn’t take us too long,” Gabriel interjects. “I call dibs on the panic room. We can test whether it works down there.”

“No problem,” Sam says. “It’s all yours. I doubt anyone will feel inclined to set up camp down there when they’ve got this,” he says, gesturing vaguely towards the bedrooms.

“I doubt they’ll be thinking much about the end of the world, too, when they can do so much more interesting things in there.” Gabriel grins and wiggles his eyebrows in an extraordinarily suggestive way.

“Gabriel,” Castiel says sternly, “your mind should be set on more important matters than fornication with imaginary women.”

Sam chokes on his spit.

Gabriel just looks sort of... irritated, dejected and defeated at the same time. “You ain’t gonna give me a break at all before we figure this out, are you? Not even a good night’s sleep?”

“You don’t need to sleep,” Castiel points out, rather redundantly.

“I don’t need to eat,” Gabriel says as if he is making a point, and well, maybe he is.

Sam regards them with some curiosity. “Seriously?” he asks. “How does that work? You don’t need to sleep, but you can?”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “You are way too excited about this, kiddo,” he says dryly. “But I guess it figures you’d be geeking out all over us. Got a bit of an angel kink, do we, Samsquatch?”

“Shut up!”

Castiel decides to pay Gabriel’s jabs no heed. He has found that a lot of what comes out of his brother’s mouth is relatively unhelpful unless he is absolutely focused, which only seems to happen in emergency situations, and most of his comments are rather crude, too. He thinks that Gabriel enjoys this way too much, but maybe this is a side effect of living amongst humans for too long. Sam and Dean, he remembers, share a similar relationship, always teasing each other.

“It is possible,” Castiel answers in lieu of Gabriel, “but it does take some practise.” He cannot hide the way his muscles twist a little at the memory of waking up all disoriented and confused.

“You’ll get used to it.” Gabriel shrugs and doesn’t notice the way Castiel tenses. It’s no big deal for Gabriel, and Castiel doesn’t begrudge him that, isn’t even angered by the careless comment, but he thinks his brother doesn’t realise that, while he enjoys sleep, Castiel might be forced to do it. There will be no merry experimenting and slowly getting used to and fond of it. If being cut off from Heaven has the effect on him he thinks it will have, it will become a necessity for him. A sign of how far he has fallen, a sign that he is becoming human.

“I might have to,” he says gravely.

Sam looks decidedly uncomfortable. “Yeah, well, you don’t know that yet,” he tries to comfort him. “We’ll wait and see. Either way...we got your back, okay? Just so you know.”

Castiel thinks he will never not be surprised by Sam’s ability to forgive and be supportive. “Thank you.”

“You saved our lives.” Sam shrugs. “It’s the least we can do. We owe you this.”

“Would you look at that,” Gabriel says. “And where’s my gratitude and heartfelt promise of a back rub?”

“Stop being a dick and I’ll think about it,” Sam replies without missing a beat. “... maybe not the back rub, though.”

“What a shame.” Gabriel grins, then sighs. “Okay, let’s get to work. But I am _not_ abstaining from sleep.”

They walk down to the panic room. Castiel suspects this might be his brother trying to be considerate to make up for his faux pas before. It’s ridiculous, of course. He doesn’t need his grace to fly, only his wings, and they are still firmly attached to his back. His ability to fly, he hopes, will never fade. Then again, his wings are partly made of grace so...

“Stop freaking out,” Gabriel murmurs. “I can _hear_ you screaming internally, and it’s not helping.”

Castiel inhales deeply. “Forgive me, brother.”

“Dude,” Gabriel rolls his eyes, “seriously, there’s nothing to forgive. Just... don’t panic. We’ll figure this out. Anyway, there’re worse things than being human.”

“I don’t think you have sufficient experience to judge this. Or have you ever tried living without your powers?” Castiel asks coolly.

“Nope, but I’ve been around, Cas. It ain’t so bad. I’m pretty sure Anna will tell you the same. Anyway, point stands. Sammy was right, no point in freaking out about something that might or might not happen. If it does, we’ll deal with it.” He pulls a face. “Although you should’ve probably thought about that before going all kamikaze on Uriel and Yofiel.”

“Exactly. I didn’t expect to come out of that fight alive, only to buy you enough time to get the Winchesters and the others to safety.”

“If you don’t stop moping about being alive I might just have to hit you.”

“I’m not... moping.” The word feels strange on his tongue.

 “Yes, you are. Look, I get it, you feel awful. You know you did the right thing, but you hate yourself for it anyway. I get it, okay? But you need to get over it. You might live for the rest of eternity, and you can’t spend all that time hating yourself.” Gabriel looks at him, uncharacteristically serious.

Castiel wonders what he has done that he hated himself that much for. He definitely sounds like he has some first-hand experience. But while Gabriel looks sincere, genuine, he also looks like he is absolutely not willing to talk about it, so he lets it go and merely nods, acknowledging the advice and silently promising to do his best to follow it.

It takes them several days to create a modified sigil that allows them to get past the others. The work is long and tedious, because they have absolutely nothing to go on except for their imagination and creativity. Luckily, Gabriel has plenty of these, but they don’t necessarily result in valuable leads. Inventing new sigils isn’t as easy as one would suspect.

Their attempts to add or delete certain letters from the original sigils, which is their first course of action, lead nowhere. Trying to weave their names into them, around them, either seems to render the sigils complete useless – a theory they test by only adding one name and finding that the other could get past them as well – or has no effect at all. They spend almost a day and a half on this, growing increasingly frustrated - especially Gabriel, who is not known for his patience and who, despite his earlier vow, does not saunter off to sleep, which makes him surprisingly grumpy. In the end, they decide that it is not worth the effort continuing to work on this approach. It is, in any case, too risky: too much has gone awry as to be one hundred per cent sure the sigils, even if they found some that worked, would be completely fool proof.

After hours of rather heated discussion, they decide to work on symbols that will override the others without digging holes into the protective system they have built. Once they have agreed on this, their work advances much more quickly. When the sun sets, they have created a sigil that only works with their own blood, mixed with holy water and a drop of their grace. It costs a lot of energy and every sigil only works once before being burnt away, much like banishing sigils. It’s certainly not ideal - in fact, it seems rather excessive that they will need to activate one sigil for every trip they make and another when re-entering, instead of having just one that gives them permanent access - but it works. The fact that Castiel will be using this system as little as possible in order not to drain his grace further goes unspoken, but both he and Gabriel take a walk around the salvage yard anyway to ensure they have a multitude of sigils they can activate whenever need be.

Dean is, as expected, sceptical when they inform him of their success. “You sure those’ll work?” he asks, scrutinising the pattern.

“They’d better,” Gabriel gruffs. “I didn’t spend forty-plus hours buried in a metal container that gives me wing cramps and lets zero sunlight in for nothing.”

Dean shakes his head. “I think I’ll never get used to you talking casually about extra limbs.”

“Better learn how to deal, big boy.”

Castiel, meanwhile, is as taken aback by Gabriel’s sudden openness about his divine origin as Dean is. His brother has spent so much time trying to be something else, trying to forget what he is and become almost the opposite of an angel, that Castiel expected him to be more reluctant to accept the revelation of his true identity, to avoid talking or thinking about it. But instead, he is strangely comfortable. Maybe, Castiel muses, even more so than before. Now that he has nothing to hide, it seems Gabriel has resolved to behave exactly like what he is: an unusual, complicated spiritual hybrid. It’s fascinating to watch, how the trickster personality and the archangel he used to know melt together slowly but surely until they are thoroughly merged in one being that, as Dean puts it, doesn’t “behave like he’s a super-optimistic guy on a sugar high with massive bouts of PMS” anymore. Sam agrees, saying that neither his cheeriness nor his spite are as prominent as before: that, all in all, he appears to be more balanced.

The brothers have spent most of the past days with the angels, Sam because of his insatiable curiosity and Dean because he has decided that he feels safer with another pair of eyes on the watch.  Since Dean trusts no one to do the job as well as himself he has spent most of the time lounging on the narrow bed, twiddling his thumbs, complaining about his nerd brother. Slowly but surely, Dean’s hand has relaxed, contented to rest farther and father away from the shotgun loaded with the last bullets coated in demon blood.

The more Dean relaxes around them, the more Castiel allows himself to feel vaguely hopeful. He, unlike Gabriel, doesn’t feel comfortable in his own skin. The uncertainty of what will happen to him still gnaws on him, unsettling him more deeply than he would have thought possible. Gabriel calls it having an identity crisis, claiming to have been there and that he’d get over it eventually. Castiel wants to believe his words, but it is far from easy. He has no idea who he is, what he is, or even where to start rebuilding himself. He thinks he knows what he wants to be, though: he wants to be the one who protects the Winchester brothers and all the people associated with them to the best of his ability. Most of all, he wants to be their friend. He wants Dean to trust him again. And with every sign that slowly, very slowly, Dean is taking his first step towards this destination, Castiel feels like maybe he can be someone again.

He isn’t fine, but maybe he can find a way to get there.

“So,” Dean says, rubbing his hands, “has anyone come up with a master plan yet?”

“Of course,” Gabriel says, rolling his eyes. “I just pulled one out of my ass.”

“Very funny.”

“What did you expect? In case you haven’t noticed, we were kind of occupied, and I think all the shit we’ve been through so far will seem like a cakewalk in comparison to what’s about to come. Maybe I need to remind you, but there’s only two of us against several thousand of them.”

Castiel is well aware of the slight pause Gabriel makes in his assertion, possibly more so than his brother is. “One and a half,” he reminds him blankly. If his powers keep diminishing like they have over the past days (he can feel it, the loss of every drop of grace he has spent on their experiment, like a limb that has been torn away from him), this will become even more of a problem. “Two and a half if Anael decides to join us.”

Gabriel swallows, and Castiel can see Sam and Dean shifting uncomfortably, but then his brother grins suddenly. “Nah, you still count as one with your freakishly big brain. Also, I make up for the brawn you’re missing. I’m awesome like that. But the point stands, we have no more than a snowball’s chance in hell of winning.”

Sam and Dean exchange a look as if they are wondering why Gabriel is still here, then. Gabriel understands it as well as Castiel does.

He shrugs. “Maybe I just like a challenge.”

“It might be helpful to be aware of the host’s plan,” Castiel points out. “We should return to the hideout and recover the devices Ash invented. I don’t think he has been working on building a new one yet.”

“No, he’s been too busy enjoying Gabriel’s treats,” Dean says, sounding mildly disgusted.

“A man after my own heart.”

“Yeah, whatever. I agree with Cas here, though. I think Ash’s been feeling a little too safe in here to be motivated to keep tracking the winged ass-monkeys’ movements.”

“Are you sure it’s safe to go there, though?” Sam interjects pensively. “They might be waiting for us to come back.”

“It’s more likely Zach’s burned the whole thing down,” Gabriel snorts. “He was always a dumb brute. He ran like a dog with his tail between his legs after I pulled Cas out of there, because he would have been too chicken to face whatever else might have been threatening him alone, but I wouldn’t put it past him to return a little later after regrouping with half of his garrison to smoke the complex out just on principle.”

“It would be unreasonable to waste time and strength on this when it must have been clear to them we had deserted the hideout.” Castiel frowns. “I... might have led them to believe I had destroyed the only really threatening thing in there, the angel radio, so....”

“Did you?” Dean says, and grins suddenly. “Cas, you sly cow.”

“Yeah, but you know Zach, he’s petty like that.” Gabriel shrugs. “Still, it’s worth a try.”

Castiel nods. “I will leave immediately.”

“Guess I’m coming too,” Gabriel sighs.

“No,” Castiel contradicts. “One of us should always stay here to protect the group. I will go alone.”

His brother gives him a look, silently asking whether he is entirely sure he can manage this alone.

“I will be fine,” Castiel assures him. “If I run into trouble, I will return at once. I am not foolish enough to let myself be engaged in a fight with several of our brothers again, and I am still fast enough to be able to outfly Zachariah if need be.”

“Okay, but you sure as hell ain’t going in there alone,” Dean says, grabbing his gun. “I’m going with.”

“Dean -“

“No arguing. You’ll need a wingman, and if Gabe can’t go, fine, but I will.”

Castiel wonders whether Dean is actually coming for support and assistance, or whether he still simply doesn’t trust Castiel enough to let him out of sight alone. Whether he still suspects Castiel will go running back to Heaven, although he has made it clear several times that this possibility doesn’t exist for him anymore. Castiel wants to tell him to stay here where it is safe, because he doesn’t want to take him somewhere he will be in danger, somewhere he might not be able to protect him; but this is _Dean_ , who has grown up as a hunter, who has put his life on the line on a daily basis since he was four years old, who will always insist that he can protect himself and who is more stubborn than a mule. Castiel knows he has no chance of talking him out of this now that he has made up his mind.

“Very well.” It’s anything but well, but he can deal with this. He knows that, should they encounter Zachariah or other angels again, he still has enough grace left to send Dean back immediately. He can still get Dean out of the danger zone, without any of his brothers knowing where he sent him. There is no way of tracing this, unlike for example his grace; Zachariah might be able to follow Castiel once he picks up the trail of his grace, but the humans will be alright. He tells himself that, and convinces himself that having Dean by his side is a good thing, when in reality he thinks that it will most likely only result in more of his brothers getting hurt.

“You run into trouble, you call me,” Gabriel orders sternly. “But make sure not to broadcast to the entire host. You should be able to channel it so that only I can hear it.”

Castiel nods. That, he can do. He clamps his hand down on Dean’s shoulder and transports them first into the salvage yard to activate one of the sigils, then away to the previous hideout. They land a littleoutside, in the shelter of some rocks that hide them from the sight of anyone or anything that might have taken residence in the abandoned caves.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Your aim’s just a little bit off, dude.”

“It would be unwise to barge right in without knowing what might expect us,” he replied dryly. “I might have landed us in the middle of a pile of rubble, or in the middle of a group of my brothers.”

“You seriously think they’re waiting for us here?”

Castiel hesitates for a moment and takes some time to extend his senses. “I cannot sense any of my brothers nearby,” he concludes. “I believe it is safe to go inside.”

Dean nods, and starts walking, caution replacing his earlier bravado. It is more than obvious that he is not keen on having another encounter with the heavenly host. Castiel follows him slowly, vigilantly, expecting his brethren to show up any second, but they reach the centre of the complex without any trouble. There aren’t even any signs of destruction or searching, as if the angels have deemed the place too insignificant to spend any more time in it. Dean leads him down one of the corridors he has never used, where the rooms used for storage were situated. He stops at the very end of the aisle to enter the room, bends down to unplug several cables, picks up the computer and presses it into Castiel’s arms.

“Don’t drop it.”

Castiel wants to assure him that this is more than unlikely to happen when he feels a sudden spark of excitement rushing through his grace. He is very well accustomed to it; it’s how his essence rejoices in the presence of his kin. Now, however, it is quickly replaced with terror.

Castiel practically throws the computer back in the arms of a very surprised Dean, who only very barely manages to catch it, and grips the knife Dean is carrying attached to his belt. Dean tenses up instantly and takes a step back, unsure of his motives. “Cas-“

“They are approaching.”

That shuts Dean up, and he quickly sets down the processor with one swift, fluid motion, and grabs his gun. “Where?”

Castiel doesn’t answer; he is too busy slicing through the skin of his forearm. He very distantly notices the sharp pang of pain and the warmth of the blood pouring over skin and grits his teeth. Gabriel will have to heal him later, but for now he has to make sure Dean doesn’t get hurt. He briefly contemplates sending him away, but he knows Dean would be furious, and he might need his help, so he opts for another possible plan.

He finishes the banishing sigil only seconds before the angels touch down a few meters in front of them and slams his palm into the middle of it. “Close your eyes,” he yells, and then bright white light fills the room. He thinks he hears Zachariah scream in fury, but there is nothing he can do; he and his soldiers are thrown back, sent far away.

The light ebbs away, and Castiel stumbles slightly. “They will need some time to regroup and find their way back,“ he rasps, “but they won’t be gone long. We should leave as quickly as possible. Do you have everything we need?”

Dean is staring at him with wide eyes. “Jesus, Cas,” he breathes. Castiel thinks it might be his reaction to seeing him bleeding all over the floor, which is curious in itself. Dean, being a hunter, must be well accustomed to the sight of blood. In fact, he has probably seen more gruesome things on a daily basis when his life still consisted of weekly hunting trips. Nothing warrants a reaction this strong from his side. “Dude, why are you not healing yourself?”

“I can’t,” Castiel bites out, trying to suppress the surge of shame and humiliation that takes over him. He has never before been dependent on his brothers to heal him, except for one time in the Great War when his wings were gravely injured. “Which is why we should return.”

“Jesus,” Dean mutters again and ignores the urgency of the situation in favour of shrugging out of the plaid button-down shirt he is wearing over his T-shirt and wrapping it tightly around Castiel’s wound. “Maybe you want to _not_ hack up your arteries in the future if you can’t heal yourself anymore, huh?”

“I will be fine.” Castiel dismisses his worries, although he gets the feeling that maybe he won’t be. He is starting to feel dizzy from the blood loss, which is something he has never experienced before. He hadn’t expected his Fall to progress this rapidly, to be affected by something as insignificant as blood loss at that early a stage.

“Right,” Dean says, clearly sceptical. “Okay, let’s get out before they come back. You sure you can transport us both plus equipment back or should we call Gabe?”

“There is no need risking to compromise his identity and location,” Castiel says blankly. “I can fly us both back. Take what Ash needs, and hurry.”

Dean does just that, gathering everything important in his arms, which clearly gives him balance issues, and Castiel takes them back. He is already swaying on his feet when he activates the second of the sigils drawn in his blood, and by the time the blood and grace have burnt away to grant them passage, he feels his feet slipping away from under his body. The world is moving faster than he is used to, and the sky is tilting in a very curious way before most of his vision black out. He faintly hears Dean curse next to him – above him? – and then the clatter of something metallic hitting the ground. There’s a strong arm holding him more or less upright as his knees finally give out completely.

“Gabriel!” Dean hollers while he drags Castiel past the line of protection. Castiel thinks he hears the flutter of feathered wings in the air, and then he knows nothing else.

∞

Castiel comes to to soft, murmuring voices in the background, the feeling of a soft mattress under his back and a terrible headache. Slowly, he opens his eyes and blinks until his vision clears enough to distinguish his brother’s features above him.

“Oh, look, who’s decided to join us,” Gabriel says. “Welcome back to the living, bro.”

Castiel props himself up on his elbows, feeling groggy. It’s the strangest sensation – he doesn’t actually feel any pain in his body, but every fibre of his muscles seems to be tired and reverberating with the faint echo of exhaustion, which makes little sense because he hasn’t even really been in a fight.

“I can’t let you alone for five minutes, can I?” Gabriel’s tone is deeply disapproving.

“I think I might have underestimated the extent to which blood loss affects human bodies,” Castiel admits. His throat is dry and his voice hoarse, as if he hadn’t drunk in a week.

He still finds it hard to believe that the blood loss was enough to cause him to nausea in the first place. He cannot have lost that much blood – two litres, maybe. He didn’t cut that deep, either – or did he? He doesn’t remember anymore. It must have been the combination of blood loss and burning away another piece of his grace that has triggered this extreme reaction. Certainly he’s still angel enough that his vessel’s injuries can’t affect him this badly.

Gabriel snorts. “Yeah, you might have. I know one thing, I’m not letting you out there alone again.” He chuckles. “I think you kind of freaked Dean out.”

“Oh.” Castiel frowns. “I apologise.”

Gabriel shrugs. “Guess he’s just not used to watching angels faint.”

Castiel swallows. His throat is unthinkably dry. “I suppose.” He isn’t used to losing consciousness either. It’s an experience he could have done without.

“For the record, neither am I.” He sits back, props up his feet on the mattress and shifts until he finds a comfortable position that allows him to watch his younger brother with a mix of mild exasperation and resigned fondness. “But hey, something new every day keeps boredom away. Still, I’m sure everyone would appreciate it if you stopped pulling these stunts.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “Anyone ever told you that you’re a shitty liar?” he deadpans. With a swift motion, he swings his feet off the bed again and stands up, turning to leave before Castiel has the chance to react to his accusation. “Anyway, Dean wants to talk to you.” As if on cue, the door opens and Dean peeks inside.

“Sleeping beauty awake yet?”

“All yours.” Gabriel waves his hand, grinning. “Just keep it PG-rated and don’t wear him out.” Dean’s face actually turns red a little upon hearing his words, but whether from anger or embarrassment, Castiel cannot tell. “And make sure he doesn’t try to get up. He’s grounded for tonight. No leaving the bed.”

“I really do not believe this is necessary, brother,” Castiel says icily. He is tired, yes, but not dizzy anymore, and the headache slowly begins to fade. He has fought battles with far worse injuries slowing him down; he doesn’t need to be babied.

“Dude, you were out cold for three hours. You need rest. No, that’s not debatable,” Gabriel says. “Knock him out if you need to,” he tells Dean with a sort of malicious glee. “Would serve him right and anyway, healing a bruised chin’d give me way less trouble than whatever stupid ideas he might have if he’s scampering around.”

“Done.” Dean shrugs.

Castiel glares at him, but it seems to lack the desired intimidating effect. It must be because he is practically tied to a sick bed; or maybe because Dean saw him collapsing on the ground unconscious only hours ago. He guesses he is simply no longer the angel everyone was afraid of such a short time ago.

“Don’t give me that look, Cas,” Dean says and sits down. “He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s right. You just nearly died for the second time in less than a week: cut yourself some slack and take a time-out.”

“I was in no danger of dying today,” Castiel replies indignantly. “The wound merely affected my vessel, and thus, me. I confess that the backlash was stronger than I had anticipated and that my grace is depleting faster than I am comfortable with, but I am not tethered to this body to an extent that would cause me to die from something as simple as blood loss. I am not human, Dean, and you still need more than the weapons in your possession to kill me.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Dean says, running a hand over his face. “But how long until that changes?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, not only because he cannot possibly predict this accurately, but also because it’s not something he wants to think about. The correct and most honest answer is _probably faster than you and I can imagine_ , but the truth is, it hurts too much to even consider it. Castiel doesn’t regret the decision he has made, doesn’t regret helping the humans. Right now, though, he just feels like he is dying very slowly, almost painlessly, as if the depletion of his grace were a clandestine sickness spreading through his body, with nothing he can do to stop it. He can only watch from the sidelines, completely powerless.

“Look, Cas, all I’m saying is, you gotta stop doing that. Risking your life for us like that, like you’re throwing away your own life to protect us without a second thought. You’re not superman anymore. That probably sucks for you. I get it. Maybe you even forget about it when we’re in deep shit, I don’t know. What I’m saying is, you gotta stop being so careless, Cas, because we need you, alive and functional, okay? We _need_ your help. So can you please try and not let yourself be cut to pieces? Or... not cut yourself to pieces, for that matter?”

Castiel sighs. It’s hard to stay angry when Dean is looking at him with genuine concern. He still feels ashamed and somewhat humiliated, but these sentiments are lessened by the soothing reassurance of Dean’s worry. He wishes Dean didn’t have to worry about him at all, but the fact that he does proves that they are one step closer to their former friendship. Knowing that Dean cares, cares about _him_ and not just about the assistance he can offer in fighting off the heavenly host, is like balm for his flayed pride.

“Yes, Dean,” he says quietly. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Dean sounds relieved and then, after a long pause, asks, “You’re not doing so good, are you?”

Castiel blinks. “I am perfectly well,” he assures him. “Gabriel healed all my wounds and replenished the blood that my vessel needs to function correctly.”

“That’s not what I was talking about.” Dean looks like he would prefer anything over having this conversation, which is something Castiel can sympathise with. He can only assume Sam prodded Dean to initiate this talk, and if it is heading into the direction Castiel presumes it will, then he feels he can only copy Dean’s discomfort. “I meant... uh... you, being away from your home, cut off from your brothers. The power loss. Becoming like us.”        

“It’s not easy,” he replies plainly, “to adjust to this. Being almost human... weak and breakable. I never used to be, before, but now I cannot even trust my senses anymore.” He takes a deep breath. “Being away from my brothers, it’s... excruciating.”

Dean frowns. “They’re trying to kill you.”

“They are still my brothers.” Castiel shrugs helplessly. “Tell me, could you ever hate Sam?”

Dean doesn’t have think about the answer. “No, never. No matter what he did.”

Castiel nods. “Then you understand why I don’t want to see them hurt, although I have decided to stand against them.” He stops, reconsiders, and tilts his head. “I might make an exception for Zachariah.”

Dean looks stunned for about half a second, then he throws back his head and laughs. “You are something else,” he says, shaking his head and gets up. “You should get some more rest. Make sure you get back on your feet as soon as possible. If you need anything, just call.”

“Of course.” He blinks when he sees that Dean is still hovering by the door, with his hand on the handle but clearly hesitant to open it. “Is there something else?”

“Nothing just... thanks, I guess.” Dean shrugs. “I’m glad we have you on our side.”

A warm feeling washes over him and settles deep in his stomach, and Castiel can’t help but smile. “You are a good man, Dean Winchester, and I am blessed to have met you.”

He means it. It has gotten him into more trouble than he could have ever imagined, but when he really thinks about it, he knows that he doesn’t want to go back to blindly following orders. Being with Dean and his brother has shown him that there is something worth fighting for beyond the orders of Heaven. It has shattered his world view and left him weak and broken, and yet in an unfamiliar way he feels much stronger than he has ever been before. He’s not part of a collective anymore, not the way he used to be - he still feels the loss of it, sharp and stinging in every fibre of his being - but he understand the human appeal of individuality now. He feels more like himself, more comfortable with who he is, with his choices. More assured that he is doing the right thing. No more doubts, no more wondering, no more being conflicted about carrying out the tasks given to him by his superiors.

In the end, he thinks, maybe this is what he is supposed to be. He’s always been different from his brothers, never quite fitting in, despite trying harder than anyone else. Castiel isn’t sure he fits in here on earth either, but he thinks that in the long run, he prefers this.

Dean ducks his head, looking a little uncomfortable, but he’s smiling a little before he slips out of the room. Castiel buries his head in the soft pillow, closes his eyes and, for the first time, doesn’t resist the heaviness taking over his limbs, instead welcoming the darkness and letting himself be dragged under.

   ∞

“So I’ve been thinking,” Sam says slowly, running his hands through his hair. “These sigils you’ve been putting up all around the house... would they work on a larger scale?”

Gabriel scrunches up his nose, and sighs. “I have the horrible feeling that with ‘larger scale’ you mean the _entire frickin’ planet_.”

“Um... yes?”

“Wow, always ask for seven impossible things before breakfast, why don’t you, Samsquatch?”

Castiel frowns. “Actually, I’m not sure it’s entirely impossible.”

Dean’s head perks up in curiosity and surprise. “Seriously? You can wing that? Lock their feathery asses out for good?”

“No,” Gabriel grinds out, his voice resembling a growl. “We definitely can’t. Do you have idea how much energy and grace these sigils suck out of me and Cas?”

“But that’s only the ones allowing you to get in and out,” Sam argues. “The ones Cas wanted to use at the hideout were done in human blood, and they would’ve worked if they had been completed, right?”

“Yeah, but how exactly do you think Cas and I are gonna move around if we do that? Newsflash, we can’t actually paint them on the sky to create a cocoon around earth. I mean, I guess, if we carefully worked out a pattern, tight as a spider’s web, it _might_ prevent angels from touching down, but we’d have to cover practically every available surface to make that net tight enough to be foolproof, and oh, feel free to speak up if you have any ideas on how to cover the oceans. Not to mention that these sigils work against every angel in existence, which means Cas and I will be rendered useless because we won’t be able to move. And even if we managed to find a way to adjust them in a way that allows us to keep everyone out with a protective ring and doesn’t keep Cas and me from moving around, you do realise that all the angels that are currently down here will be trapped on earth, too, right? Forever, I might add, unless they find a way to break the sigils, in which case we’d have to start over again and-”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” Dean interrupts with a huff. “You think it’s a bad plan, no need to freak out about it.”

Gabriel sighs, relaxes minutely, and rubs his hand over his face. “It’s not a bad idea, per se. It’s just infeasible.”

“And I’m guessing you’re not too thrilled about the prospect of being stuck down here forever either.” Sam’s smile is a little bitter.

“I’m not thrilled at the prospect of my brothers being trapped here and attacking you,” Gabriel retorts dryly.

“How many angels are down here?” Dean frowns.

Castiel shrugs. “Enough to wipe your race out entirely if they have enough time.”

“Awesome,” Dean sighs. “What, is there, like, no way to kick their asses back upstairs before we put the planet on lockdown?” His eyes lock with Cas’s for a moment, and in this instant he knows what the hunter is thinking about. “Something like what Cas did yesterday. You sent them away, didn’t you? But where would they go when they’re hit with a banishing sigil? Somewhere else on earth, or back to Heaven?”

“Depends on how you execute it,” Gabriel says. He tilts his head, looking contemplative. “The version with human blood wouldn’t be all that effective, but infused with grace it would definitely throw them off this plane and back to Heaven.”

Sam’s eyes light up in excitement. “So that’s something we could do?”

“I sincerely doubt it,” Castiel says. “Banishing sigils have very little range, which means we would have to get very close to our brothers, and catch them off guard. That in itself is not an easy task. And considering that they are scattered all over the globe, it would take a lot of time to locate every single one of them. By the time we are facing the last ones, the angels we banished first would have long since had the chance to recover from the... disorientation the banishing causes. They would return, and probably see through our plan quickly and bring reinforcements.”

“I guess that’s a no, then.” Sam buries his face in his hands, and Dean seems equally disheartened. Seeing the despair in the way their shoulders hunch makes something inside Castiel clench painfully, and when he meets Gabriel’s grim gaze from across the room, he knows that his brother is feeling the same.

“Not necessarily,” he says, his mind racing. “Banishing sigils are, in the broadest sense, susceptible to coupling. If we plan carefully and execute it correctly we might be able to set up a pattern that covers large areas and jump start a knock-on effect by infusing the first sigil with grace. Maybe we can even modify the sigils’ range or work out a way to have them self-activate whenever angels come near them. And there is no need to cover the entire planet: if we manage to link the sigils, their effect should cover the range from one sigil to another as well.”

Sam is looking back and forward between him and Gabriel. Castiel doesn’t begrudge him that he wants to check the plausibility of his theory with the more powerful and experienced angel and thinks that despite their disagreements and fights, Sam would probably still prefer laying his life in Gabriel’s hands over relying entirely on Castiel. It’s understandable: Castiel’s bond with Sam isn’t as strong as his bond with Dean, although they consider each other friends.

“A never-ending chain reaction of banishing sigils,” Gabriel repeats flatly. “That would take a lot of grace.”

Castiel shrugs. “There is no reason to believe we wouldn’t be able to construct it in a way that makes it self-sustaining.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that we’d need large amounts of power to set off the reaction in the first place.”

Castiel knows what Gabriel is hinting at. He knows that his brother, unlike the Winchesters, has calculated every possible outcome of this plan within seconds, that he is well aware of all the risks and the consequences, and wonders why, if he is so reluctant, Gabriel keeps skirting around the edges of the actual, head-on conversation instead of exposing the backlashes and sacrifices that the plan will claim. If Gabriel decided to argue straightforwardly against this, if he laid out everything, he knows that Dean and Sam would try to find another way. He knows that, and Gabriel knows that, and it takes him a while to understand what Gabriel is silently asking.

“I know,” he answers plainly, watching something in Gabriel’s face shift, watches the flicker of pain and sadness and repugnance before impassiveness settles in his eyes, watches the minuscule nod Gabriel gives him and knows they have reached a quiet understanding.

“Alright!” Gabriel clasps his hand and jumps to his feet with fake but convincing enthusiasm. “Let’s get this show on the road. Dean, Sam, could you get us some maps so we can plan where to put the sigils and... some blood to test whether the linking works on a smaller scale? I’m sure you’re all happy to bleed for the good cause.”

Sam and Dean exchange a look, like they suspect that there’s something off, but then they agree with a shrug and trail out of the room, leaving Castiel alone with his brother.

“Well,” he drawls, “I hope you’re really ready to do this.”

“I am.”

Gabriel sighs. “Yeah, I should’ve figured you’d be all over the idea of sacrificing yourself.”

“I’m not,” Castiel disagrees steadily. “If there had been another way, I would have gladly chosen whatever other solution had offered itself to us. But there is no alternative, and I’m willing to do whatever is necessary to keep them safe.”

“I know, that’s the only reason I agreed to this. And I also know you’re too damn stubborn for me to talk you out of this.” Gabriel inhales sharply. “Are you going to tell them?” he asks, jerking his head towards the direction Sam and Dean went off to.

“No.” Castiel says, staring at Dean’s retreating back. A sudden wave of sadness and longing rushing through him, but he doesn’t have the time to indulge in it.

“That’s healthy,” Gabriel comments dryly. “They’re going to find out, you know. And it’s not gonna be pretty. If they find out before we’ve pulled this stunt-”

To be honest, Castiel is a little surprised that neither Sam nor Dean have commented on the fact that banishing sigils that should expel every angel on earth will decidedly affect Gabriel and Castiel as well. He assumes they expect them to find a way around it, or maybe they simply haven’t given the idea any thought at all, too excited about the possibilities to end this war and live the rest of their life in peace, without having to hide and constantly fear being discovered and killed. He fears the moment they begin to ask questions, and thinks that he should leave the lying to his brother. Gabriel is a far better liar than he could ever hope to be – he is a god of lies, so there is no way Castiel could compete – and will be able to tell them that he and Cas will be safe straight-faced. They will never question the reassurance, Castiel knows they won’t, because they are desperate and clinging to this last straw, too hungry for safety to look this gift horse in the mouth. They will be upset when they activate the sigils and find Gabriel and Castiel gone, he supposes, but they will get over it. Sam and Dean have lived without them before, they will learn to live without them again quite easily. After all, they won’t need them anymore.

 “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, well, _you_ won’t be around to deal with the shitstorm that’s gonna blow up.”

“You won’t be either,” Castiel points out softly. “Are you prepared for that?”

“Bro, I’m not the one who’s going to be in trouble. The worst they can do to me is bore me to death,” Gabriel snorts, but his humour sounds forced now that he doesn’t have to keep up the mask of cheerfulness and optimism.

“You’re leaving behind everything you love. There is no reason to downplay the significance of what you’re giving up.”

“At least I won’t be _dead_ ,” Gabriel retorts testily, almost viciously. It’s only then that Castiel understands what this must mean to him. Castiel is the only brother Gabriel has spoken to in two millennia, and he likes to think they have grown close in the time they spent on earth together, bonding over their love for humanity and devotion to the small group of humans that they are so desperately trying to protect, no matter how much Gabriel will deny it when asked directly. 

Gabriel lets out a shaky laugh. “So am I prepared? Hell no. I don’t want to be thrown off this planet, be stuck in Heaven and never have the chance to come back. I don’t want to have to watch what they’ll do to you, knowing that I can’t protect you.”

“Don’t blame yourself for not being able to protect me,” Castiel says quietly, and hesitantly rests his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, giving it an awkward squeeze and hoping that the touch will calm his distress. “I brought this on myself, and I made my choice a long time ago. I knew what would await me if I ever returned to Heaven the moment I betrayed my brethren and killed one of our brothers. You might have turned your back on Heaven, but never the way I did. They will welcome you back with open arms, and you should be thankful for that instead of despising yourself and thinking that you deserve a punishment like I will face.”

“I don’t like this,” Gabriel admits, relaxing minutely under his touch. He sounds more resigned than resistant now, though, and Castiel knows that he will support him until the end. “I don’t like any of this.”

“No,” Castiel agrees, “but you will do it anyway, because you care about them, and because it is the right thing to do.”

Gabriel snorts. “You sound like you’re two seconds away from quoting Harry Potter.” Castiel frowns in confusion, and Gabriel laughs. “I’ll give you a lesson in pop culture references before this is over. Maybe then you’ll finally be able to actually communicate with our two favourite yahoos. Especially Dean. You two are respectively emotionally constipated and socially inept, so teaching you to speak the same language is the least I can do.”    

∞

Sam stares at the maps and calculations, biting his lip and furrowing his brow. “That’s a lot of ground we need to cover. Literally. And I don’t even want to think about where we’re going to get all that blood from. We can’t possibly provide it all.”

Gabriel shrugs and throws himself into a chair, letting his feet dangle over the armrest. “Not necessary. I’ve got it covered.”

Dean raises an eyebrow sceptically, but accepts it. “How long will it take for you two to get all the sigils up. I mean, I get that you can flit around the world in record speed and all, but this looks like you want one on every fifty square kilometre.”

“Me,” Gabriel corrects. “Cas is not going, we can’t risk that. We’ll need the majority of his grace to get the loop running, and then there’s also the small but important issue of him having pissed off everyone upstairs so much that as soon as he sticks his neck out the host will come flocking and go after him.”

“If you need me to get my grace back so we can split up and do this together-“ Anna begins hesitantly, but Castiel shakes his head.

“No,” he tells her. “Gabriel will be fine, although it might take him several days.”

Gabriel is stealthy, very good at hiding, and very cunning. He’s also able to sense his brothers in his vicinity far earlier than Castiel or Anna could, which means he can avoid them more easily. If Anna became an angel again, it would not only attract the brethren’s attention, it would also mean that she’d have to face the same fate that awaits him once the sigils are activated and they are banished from earth. It’s not something he wants to be responsible for, especially since she has made it very clear that she prefers earth over Heaven, that she enjoys being human, that she’d made her choice a long time ago and would only go back if it was absolutely inevitable. It’s not. In fact, he has told her that having her grace stored here on earth might be vital in case the self-sustaining energy system didn’t work; in that case, she would still be there to resolve the problem or maybe, with the energy contained in that small vial around her neck, re-start the chain reaction. Anna is a trump card that the host knows absolutely nothing about, a backup that is reassuring to have. It makes him think that maybe Dean will be truly safe, and while that does not make the thought of leaving him behind and dying any easier, it is soothing and calming.

“So we’ll just be sitting here twiddling our thumbs until you come back?” Dean demands.

“No,” Gabriel replies. “Castiel will call in a favour.”

“A favour,” Dean repeats flatly. “From who?”

“An old friend.”

“Wow, that’s specific,” Sam says dryly. “I’m guessing we’re talking about another angel here.”

“Obviously.”

“Okay, what is this shit and why haven’t you told us about it?”

“We have talked about it, Dean,” Castiel sighs. “The energy needed to keep the sigil loop active cannot come from us, which is why we are going to tap into Heaven’s energy using an angelic weapon. Think of it as a conductor that fuels the entire system once Gabriel and I have started it. “

“So?”

“So all angelic weapons that would qualify – and no, our blades wouldn’t work, they hold no power of their own – are currently, guess what, in _Heaven_ ,” Gabriel snaps. “Cas and I can’t exactly stroll in there and test our sticky fingers.”

“So you’re going to let someone else do it?” Sam asks, incredulous. “Someone who can then tell everyone what we’re planning?”

“Balthazar may have questionable morals-“

“Understatement,” Gabriel interrupts, scoffing. “The little shit enjoys breaking into the vaults way too much. He’s gonna be thrilled we give him an excuse to treat himself.”

“- but repaying his debts is very important to him, and he owes me his life,” Castiel continues, ignoring his brother’s snide remarks. “More importantly, he has always been my best friend in Heaven. He will help us.”

“I don’t like it.”

“No need to be jealous, Dean-o,” Gabriel says, looking inexplicably amused. “They weren’t _that_ kind of friends.”

Dean goes rigid, Sam chokes on his own breath, and Anna just grins when she sees Castiel’s confused frown.  It takes a moment to understand what his brother is hinting at, and his first reaction is to respond with indignation, but he stops himself short. The lack of a retort from Dean’s side (besides the glare he sends in Gabriel’s direction) is startling, but it doesn’t mean anything. In any case, Castiel thinks it’s wiser to keep quiet about this. He has been very pointedly not thinking about Dean as anything more than a friend. He cannot afford to inspect and analyze his feelings. He doesn’t have the time for it, and now is not the moment: it will be hard enough to do what he has to do as it is, and he has been half-aware that saying something might ruin his friendship with Dean.

Still, Castiel knows that the nature of his affections has begun to shift - or maybe they have been shifting for a long time, and he simply didn’t realise it before. The more human he has become, cut off from Heaven and everything he used to be, the more he has had to suppress his feelings for Dean: the fondness, the overwhelming desire to be near him, the satisfaction in making him smile. No other human, not even Sam, has wormed his way into Castiel’s heart as persistently and steadily as Dean has. Castiel thinks, idly, that Dean has made a home in there. He has always known that he would always remember him, no matter what happened, and the fact that he is willing to give his life for Dean only emphasises this.

Castiel considers everything carefully, and feels conviction settle in his bones. He’s been trying to ignore it, because it will be hard enough to do what he has to do as it is, and because saying something would ruin his friendship with Dean, but he thinks that if he had chance, he would want everything from Dean. Gabriel’s remark would have been a lot more apt had he been talking to Castiel.

Castiel is glad that the archangel refrains from continuing his prodding in favour of getting up, gathering the maps and a small knife and shoving everything into his pockets. “Guess I’ll see you mooks in a couple of days,” he says as a good-bye, and with a flutter of his wings, he is gone.

Sam stares at the vacated spot with a heavy frown. “Is he alright?”

Castiel blinks.

“He’s been... off lately. Like, really quiet.”

“I think you should ask him that,” Castiel says tentatively, starting to pick out a bowl and the herbs he will need to summon an angel. It’s a good thing there are so many hunters who are well aware of rituals and spells in their group. Despite having been abandoned for years, Bobby Singer’s house is exceptionally well equipped. The old man even has weapons that would work on Bakenekos, although he must know that these shape-shifting cats never leave Japan. Castiel grabs the vial of rosemary and ponders how he can give an answer that satisfies Sam’s curiosity and soothes his concern without breaching Gabriel’s privacy or giving anything away. He knows he’s capable of lying by omission, and he doesn’t like it. It is, however, better than weaving a net of actual lies, so he tells him as much as he can say without actually slipping up.

“I... imagine that the finality of this weighs on him. He has always had the opportunity to change his mind: return to Heaven if he ever felt like it, then come back to earth. This liberty will be taken from him irrevocably.” He pauses. “I think talking to a friend would help him a lot.”

Sam looks surprised for a moment, then nods, understanding the implication. Castiel turns to Dean. “I will need to perform this ritual outside. Will you accompany me?”

He knows that, by now, Dean trusts him not to betray them, know that Dean knows he would never abandon them, but he also knows that he would not want to let Castiel step outside the protective sigils alone, as if he fears what could happen if he isn’t there to protect him. It’s almost ironic, because despite Castiel’s current weakened state, Dean is still far more fragile than he is, one hundred per cent human where Castiel is not. He may be an excellent hunter, perfectly able to defend himself against angels, but Castiel is, all in all, clearly better at fending his brothers off. Dean’s presence could only be a distraction in the case of an attack. As Gabriel remarked,  Castiel’s sense of self-preservation is practically nonexistent in Dean’s proximity. It’s a risk, but he would still rather have Dean’s company.

Dean trails behind him as he walks outside to the closest available sigil and presses his hand down on it, shuddering when he feels another gush of his grace being drained. He sways a little on his feet. Then Dean’s hand is on his arm, a warm, steady grip that keeps him upright. “Thank you,” he murmurs, waits a second until the sudden pang of nausea has passed, and steps past the invisible barrier, concentrating on his surroundings. He can feel no other angels nearby, but vigilance is vital.

“Who did you say you’re summoning again?” Dean asks, watching as Castiel mixes the ingredients meticulously while muttering Enochian under his breath. The ingredients light up in a spark, and Castiel takes a step back.

“His name is Balthazar. He was a member of my garrison. You’ll find he’s...”

“Extraordinary? Magnificent? Resplendent?”

Castiel chuckles. “I was going to say unorthodox,” he says and turns to watch his brother, wearing the skin of a tall, middle-aged blond man, skip from the rock he’s landed on. “Or conceited, maybe.”

“You wound me, Cassie, really.” Balthazar takes a sip from the champagne glass he is holding, pretending to be upset but not quite managing to hide the smirk making its way on his face. “I heard you got yourself into a bit of trouble lately,” he says, growing serious. “I’m glad to see you’re still alive.” He glances at Dean, his lips twisting into a disapproving, dismissive sneer. “And this is who you decided to Fall for? Seriously?”

Dean’s expression tightens. “Skip the insults, chuckles, we don’t have time for small talk.”

“I take it this is not a social call.”

“It isn’t,” Castiel confirms. “I am calling in the favour you owe me.”

Balthazar tenses. “Cas-“

“Don’t try to ask me to come back,” Castiel says, a quiet plea. He hopes Dean doesn’t notice the urgency in his voice. He knows he can’t take back his choice, wouldn’t if he could, but hearing Balthazar beg for his return might shatter something inside him that he desperately needs to remain unbroken if he wants to pull through with his plan. He can ignore the sharp pangs of pain that still rush through his body whenever he thinks about his home and what he has given up. He can handle his pain - he cannot handle his brother’s on top of it. “You know they wouldn’t let me even if I wanted to. I _need_ _your help_.”

“Dear Father, you’re serious about this.” Balthazar falls silent for a second, just stands and watches him and Dean. Something settles on his face, in his eyes, and ancient sadness that comes with too many centuries lived and too many brothers lost. It’s resignation and it’s acceptance, the kind of look you only find on the angels that question their Father’s plan. Castiel knows what it means, but he doesn’t know whether to cry or feel relieved. “What do you need?”

“Rumour has it you’re good at nicking things,” Dean says, a challenge in his voice.

Balthazar shoots him a withering look. “I didn’t ask you,” he points out coolly, “but yes, I do pride myself on possessing a unique skill set.”

“We need you to steal an angelic weapon and bring it to us.”

Balthazar blinks, then laughs when he understands that they aren’t joking. “And here I thought you always disapproved of my tendency to swipe everything I find interesting,” he grins. “Do you have anything specific in mind?”

“No. It would help, though, if you could bring us the most powerful weapon you can find,” Castiel replies. “Gabriel’s spear, perhaps. After all, it’s unlikely he’ll come looking for it. To my knowledge, they keep it in the throne room.”

“Of course they do,” his brother mutters, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

“Will you do it or not?” Dean snaps impatiently.   

“Well,” Balthazar drawls, “obviously I, like every other angel, am under orders to immediately report any sighting of Castiel, and, if possible, eliminate him or take him to Heaven. I’m also very much not allowed anywhere near the throne room, but then, I’ve never been much the type to follow rules. They’re much too constricting.” He sighs. “Of course, Cassie. Anything you ask.”

“Thank you.”

Balthazar nods curtly. “Give me a day or two. Three maybe, if I’m unlucky. I guess you’re not going to tell me what exactly you intend to do with this, huh?”

“Definitely not,” Dean says.

“Well, at least he’s snarky. I’m sure that keeps you entertained,” Balthazar comments dryly. “I don’t know what you see in him, but to each his own.” He shrugs. “Keep an eye out for me – and keep your head down.”

“Don’t get caught,” Castiel replies.

“Never.” His brother grins, before it melts into a smile that is tinged with sadness. “It was good to see you, brother.”

It feels like a farewell.

∞

Gabriel returns two days later, looking tired and grave. The brightness he usually exudes is dimmed, like a picture that’s faded and worn-out at the edges. “Everything’s ready on my part,” he announces.

“Did you run into any trouble?”

Gabriel shakes his head. “No. Our brothers aren’t exactly subtle. It was easy to flit around them, avoid being seen.”

 “They have no reason to hide their presence.” Castiel shrugs, and rubs his eyes. He feels tired, too, tired to the bone. It’s not only the situation weighing on him, the worry about his brother putting himself in the danger of being spotted out there, the knowledge that he will die within a couple of days, the emotional distress that the thought of leaving Dean behind causes. It’s also that he hasn’t slept at all since Gabriel left, although his body (now human enough to require rest) screams for it with every cell. “We’re still waiting for news from Balthazar,” he informs Gabriel. “But it can’t be long now.”

His brother looks at him, long and steady and scrutinising. “Maybe I should go out to meet him,” he suggests quietly. “I’m not sure you could handle crossing the protective sigils again.”

“No,” Castiel protests, determined. “It has to be me. It’s better if Balthazar doesn’t know about your involvement.”

“You don’t have to protect me, Cas.” Gabriel’s voice is barely audible, a little weary, a little broken. “I should be the one protecting you.”

“You’re giving enough. I’ve already asked too much of you.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” He takes a deep breath, his lips twitching and curling into a wistful smile. “You’re only doing what I should have done years ago. I was arrogant enough to think that I didn’t have to decide, that I could have both, leave all my options open and take the best of everything. I’ve spent so much time only caring about myself-“

“That’s not true,” Castiel interrupts. “You were protecting them, all this time.”

Gabriel laughs. “I guess I did. But I wasn’t willing to go all the way, despite... despite everything,” he falters, and Castiel hears all the things he doesn’t say. _Despite having lived on earth for so long that I hardly remember what Heaven was like. Despite feeling more at home and at peace here than I have ever felt in Heaven where I had to watch the brothers I loved tear each other apart. Despite Sam and Dean forgiving me what I have done to them and showing me a kindness I didn’t deserve. Despite my caring about them more than I thought possible, despite my reluctance to lose this and see the earth destroyed, I still didn’t find the courage or the heart to actually protect them with all my might._

“And then you come here, and it takes you two weeks to figure out what the right thing to do is, _two fucking weeks_ and you’re willing to give your life for them, to abandon everything you cared for before,” Gabriel shakes his head, and bites out the words in what Castiel realises is anger, but not directed at him but at himself. He buries his face in his hands, and Castiel doesn’t know how to react to his brother’s obvious distress, doesn’t know how to tell him that he doesn’t blame him, that no one blames him. There’s a moment of silence until Gabriel regains his composure and lifts his head again, fixing Castiel with one of this heavy looks that speak of centuries of loneliness and sadness. “You aren’t asking me to do anything, Cas,” he repeats. “You just opened my eyes, made me see that I couldn’t keep riding the pine forever, that I was being a selfish coward, that I needed to choose a side. And that’s what I’m doing. I’m choosing a side, the _right_ side, and I’m still practically gaining everything and you’re losing everything although you’re... you’re so much better than me, and it’s just _not fair_.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Castiel says, because if there’s one thing that he’s learned in his time of earth, it’s that. Bad things happen to good people, things they don’t deserve. But it’s the way of the universe. People live and people die and the world keeps on spinning. His Father works in mysterious ways indeed. He can’t possibly fathom his plans, and he guesses it doesn’t matter after all. “Promise me you will not blame yourself for my death, Gabriel. That’s a burden that doesn’t belong on your shoulders. There’s no use talking about might-have-beens.”

Gabriel’s gaze slides towards the two figures approaching from the house, arguing animatedly but without heat, easily falling in step and in sync with each other, and stays locked on the taller shadow. “I know.”

“Hey, you’re back,” Sam says once they’re in hearing distance, face actually lighting up with a smile.

“What an exceptional display of observational skills, Samsquatch, I’m impressed,” Gabriel retorts, the sarcastic mocking mask he wears to hide his emotions firmly in place.

Castiel tunes out their friendly bickering when Dean drops down next to him, stretching his limbs and sighing contentedly when several joint pop back into place. “Everyone back in there is running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off,” he complains.

“They’re excited,” Castiel shrugs. “Can you blame them?”

“No, I guess not. It’s a big day. I’m just trying to be realistic. There’s always something that could go wrong. And trust me, with the luck that Sam and I have been having? It’s very unlikely that it’ll all go as planned.”

Castiel thinks that it will all go as planned, but the Winchesters will never know and live the rest of their lives thinking something went wrong when he and Gabriel are affected by the banishing sigils as well. He tries not to dwell on it. They won’t take it well, he supposes, but he is still adamant that not telling them is the better option.

He carefully doesn’t think about Dean’s eyes, confused and panicked eyes upon realising they’re gone. There’s no way of telling whether Dean would actually mourn him. He just likes to think that he would.  

Castiel smiles as reassuringly as possible. “It will be alright, Dean.”

He wants to say more, wants to say everything he hasn’t had a chance to say, because his time is running out and he knows it, but before he can even ponder a way of expressing his feelings, he perceives the faint rustling of leaves and feathers and wind, accompanied by a faint warm pull of _familiarity_ and a slightly diminished sensation of _belonging_ that announces Balthazar’s arrival. Castiel stands and Dean immediately follows suit, in one fluid, smooth motion like it’s the most natural thing in the world to fall into step next to him the same way he does with Sam. It’s never occurred to Castiel before, that he and Dean too have taken to moving when the other does, mirroring each other’s actions. He’s always thought of it as him being hyper aware of Dean’s every move, but now it’s clear that it’s not only one-sided.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have the time to wonder what this means for them.

He casts a quick glance towards where Gabriel and Sam are standing, their voices having grown more quiet and serious, and Gabriel catches his eyes for a split second and nods minutely before Castiel turns away and heads towards the border of sigils that protects the ground they are walking on. Crossing the lines is even worse than the last time; he feels his knees wobble and give out for a moment, but Dean’s hand shoots out immediately, instinctively, to steady him. In a far corner of his mind, Castiel is grateful that he will only have to go through this one more time. He has come to terms with slowly Falling, becoming more and more human each day, a gradual process that almost feels natural by now. It goes nearly unnoticed most of the time, because he hasn’t had much need for his angelic strength anyway. But feeling large amounts of his grace being drained like this, quick and irrevocable, is hard to bear.

Castiel takes a moment to gather his strength. The grip on his arm loosens a little but doesn’t vanish, as if Dean is either afraid he’ll collapse, or wants to reassure himself that Castiel is alright. Out of the two brothers, Castiel muses, Dean has always been the more tactile, expressing his emotions with his body rather than his words the way Sam would. Castiel feels the heat Dean’s body is emanating seeping through the clothes, warming his skin, and doesn’t shake his hand off although he is perfectly capable of walking without any aid.

They turn around the corner to find Balthazar waiting, leaning against a heavy tree trunk looking nonchalant and bored as ever. He has a glass of whiskey in one hand and is twirling a spear in the other, long, slim, but intricately decorated spear. The whole picture is a reminder of how deadly Balthazar can be, regardless of how much his brethren assumes he’s unfit for being a soldier.

Balthazar’s eyes flicker to Dean’s hand on Castiel’s arm, and for a moment, it looks like amusement, disapproval and something oddly resembling jealousy are battling for dominance on his face. In the end, he settles for a mocking smile. Castiel is only glad he refrains from making a crude comment.

“Balthazar,” he says, without preamble, “I see you managed to get hold of Gabriel’s spear.”

His brother’s grin in radiant. “Obviously. I don’t know how you could ever doubt me,” he says, sounding mildly offended, and tosses him the spear easily. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell what you plan to do with it.”

Castiel looks at him, the weight of the weapon heavy but comfortably so in his hand. “It’s safer if you don’t know.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Balthazar rolls his eyes. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the sigils I’ve seen smeared all over the place, would it?”

Castiel feels Dean freeze beside him, and he realises he has stilled completely as well. It’s just as much of an answer as a straightforward conformation.

“I thought so,” Balthazar says, his voice tight. “You’re a fucking idiot, Cas.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Are you saying this won’t work?”

“You have a chance if you keep hiding out,” Balthazar continues, completely ignoring the hunter. “This? This is more than just wanting to protect humans from a fate they maybe, possibly didn’t deserve. This is a suicide mission, Cas. How can you sacrifice yourself for people who are obviously more than willing to feed you into a meat grinder and-“

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Balthazar blinks at Dean, acknowledging him for the first time, and frowns. “You haven’t told them,” he realises slowly.

“Haven’t told us what?” Dean asks, anger and wariness oozing from his voice. “What the hell is he talking about, Cas? Cas!”

Castiel wants to open his mouth to speak, to tell Balthazar to shut up, to tell Dean that it’s nothing, but the words fail him. He registers, faintly, that Dean’s grip has become vice-like and that he is shaking him, but he doesn’t know how to react. He could do it, he thinks. He could shake Dean off, knock him out, rush back to Bobby’s house and jump-start the sigils with Gabriel’s help before anyone noticed something was off. He can’t watch everything he and Gabriel have worked so hard for, everything they were willing to sacrifice for this, fall apart at his feet. He can’t. He won’t allow Dean to scuttle the plan that is going to save everyone’s lives. He _won’t_.

“What exactly do you think the angels will do to him once they get their hands on him? He’s officially been declared a traitor, and he’s killed his own kind, and Zachariah is a petty psychotic asshole on his good days.”

“They won’t get their hands on him.”

Balthazar laughs, coldly, almost cruelly. “And how are you going to prevent that when he’s catapulted back to Heaven with no way of getting back to earth, huh?”

Dean hesitates, and Balthazar snorts. “You honestly believed there was a way around it? There is no such thing as a counter spell for a banishing sigil, no barrier that will magically protect him. Once your little net is activated, every angel will be thrown off of this planet, permanently. Including Cassie here.”

“No,” Dean says shortly, torn between denial, defiance and horror.

“Stop it, Balthazar,” Castiel says sharply when he finds his voice again. “You had no right. This is my choice.” Balthazar looks like he wants to argue, but Castiel doesn’t give him a chance to open his mouth. “I’ve had time to prepare for this since the day I killed Uriel,” he continues and then adds, a little softer. “You don’t need to try to protect me.”

Balthazar just looks at him, eyes filled with sorrow. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

“No,” Castiel says. “But you might as well stop.”

Balthazar quirks a minuscule smile, and nods. “I suppose,” he says slowly, glancing back and forth between him and Dean with a certain hopefulness, as if he trusts Dean to somehow manage to change his mind, “that either way, this is goodbye.”

“I suppose,” Castiel replies. “Or maybe we will see each other once more in Heaven.”

Balthazar snorts softly and steps forward to embrace his brother. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says when he pulls back and pats Castiel on the shoulder, “but I really hope I don’t see you again.”

If there was any humour in the situation, Castiel might have chuckled at that. “Goodbye, brother.”

“Good luck.” Balthazar squeezes his shoulder once more and disappears.

Castiel turns towards Dean, then, who has been suspiciously quiet for their exchange, and is promptly subjected to a fist hitting his chin with a force that actually makes him stumble backwards a little. He turned his face to the side as soon as he saw the punch coming in order to soften the blow, but he’s still startled by the sudden pang of pain erupting from where Dean’s knuckles connected with his jaw. Instinctively, he brings his hand up to rub at the spot, tender and sensitive under his touch, and winces a little. Being a soldier, he’s been injured too many times to count, and this doesn’t even qualify as a minor injury, and yet it hurts more than the blade Yofiel buried in his side, because Dean looks so utterly outraged and betrayed that it makes Castiel’s insides clench.

He thinks he probably deserves this, but it doesn’t change the circumstances, it doesn’t change the fact that Castiel’s actions are necessary.

He expects Dean’s rage, his righteous fury, expects him to shout and scream and throw more punches. Instead, Dean just stares at him and then turns around and stalks back to Bobby Singer’s house without another word, knowing full well that Castiel will be not far behind.

“The whole thing is called off,” Dean announces rigorously to Sam and Gabriel’s puzzled faces, his voice so livid that it leaves no room for discussion.

Gabriel blinks, takes in the heavenly weapon in Castiel’s hand and the forming bruise on his chin and Dean’s agitation and groans. “Oh fuck.”

“You knew about this?” Dean seethes.

“Knew about _what_?” Sam interjects, clearly confused. “Dean, what the hell is going on?”

“Turns out they’ve been lying to us about the banishing sigils,” Dean bites out. “Because clearly they’re lying liars. Who _lie._ ”

Sam freezes.

“Don’t know why you’re so upset about it,” Gabriel snaps. “One’d think you’d be glad to be finally rid of us for good.”

“What-“ Sam begins, only to be interrupted by Dean again.

“We’re not doing this,” Dean repeats. “We’re _not_.”

“This is no more your choice to make than it was Balthazar’s, Dean,” Castiel reasons. “My death was imminent the moment I chose your side. This way, I can at least contribute to your safety.”

“Bullshit.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

Dean turns towards Gabriel, staring at him somewhat disbelievingly. “How can you be down with this?” he asks, horrified.

Gabriel lets out a sharp laugh. “What, you think I’m not the type to heroically sacrifice myself for you? You’re right. I’m not. But then, all _I_ have to fear is a slap on the wrist and some extra tuition in Sunday school. What Cas does with his life isn’t for me to decide.”

“You know what, screw you.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes in exasperation, quite convincingly covering up the pained grimace fighting its way onto his face, and turns towards Sam, who, judging from the looks on his face, seems to be slowly piecing the bits of information together. “I think,” he says, “we should leave these two alone for a minute.”

Sam hesitates for a second, then nods and gets up. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this without giving me answers.”

“Of course not,” Gabriel says, taking his spear from Castiel with a wistful smile. “I could never be that lucky.”

   They wait until the two are out of earshot. Castiel expects more accusations to rain down on him, but Dean looks less livid now, like his anger has deflated a little, but he knows it’s still there, coiled up under his skin and waiting to erupt again; it’s just mostly overshadowed by the feelings of betrayal, the disappointment and the weariness. He wonders how long they’re going to dance around this, how long they’re going to argue about this moot point, wonders how he can make Dean see that there’s no other way, that he can’t fix everything and save everyone and that that’s okay. It’s a lesson Dean should have learned years ago, he thinks, what with being a hunter, but maybe that’s what keeps Dean human, what urges him on, that interminable desire to protect people that’s been edged under his skin and anchored in his bones.

“Dean,” he begins, but Dean cuts him off with a sharp motion of his hand.

“Don’t. Just- don’t.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “How could you... why did you not tell me about this?”

Castiel sighs. “I feared you’d react like this,” he admits.

“Which shows that you know how incredibly _stupid_ your plan is.”

“No, it shows that I know you well enough to know you wouldn’t be able to consider the situation rationally,” Castiel disagrees. “You are a particularly stubborn individual, and I don’t think you could manage the level of emotional distance needed to assess the problem and draw the necessary conclusions.“

“Oh I’m sorry I’m not cold-blooded enough to watch my friend let himself get torn to pieces.”

Castiel is getting quite tired of repeating that there is no alternative.

“We’re not doing this,” Dean says again. “Don’t think I’ll let you, ‘cause I won’t. We’re going to find another way. I don’t care what you say, I don’t care if you think you’re just a pawn in a stupid game of chess and easily expendable or something, because you’re not. You don’t get to sell yourself for us. How could I-“ Dean breaks off, his voice choked. “No.”

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, wishing Dean would be able to detach himself from his emotional stance and weigh the advantages and disadvantages of his plan, the way he knows Sam would do. For all that Sam is the more overtly emotional brother, he is also the one who is able to make deliberate decisions based on logic and prospect of success. He has no doubt that Sam, too, would protest, but he probably could be more easily swayed than Dean. “If my death can guarantee your safety, then I’ll go gladly.”

“No.”

“If you could save your loved ones by giving up your own life, you would do it, wouldn’t you? You would give your life for Sam. You’d give your life for all of them without batting an eye.” He can see how torn Dean is now, sees that Dean gets it, but that he’s still not willing to give in.

“I would,” he admits. “But that’s-“

“Different?” Castiel finished for him. “No, Dean, it’s really not.”

Dean swallows heavily. “You can’t ask me to just stand by and watch you die.”

“I can,” Castiel replies. “I am. And you will.” He shakes his head slowly. “Please, Dean, I do not want to spend my last hours arguing with you.”

A heavy silence hangs between them, thick and suffocating and cutting through the strings of his heart.

“I’ll go and find Gabriel,” Castiel says. “The sooner we activate the banishing sigils the better.”

“Wait,” Dean says abruptly. “Balthazar said the sigil will affect every angel, right?”

“Yes, that is the general idea,” Castiel deadpans.

“What-“ Dean furrows his brow. “What if you aren’t an angel anymore? What if you were like Anna?”

Castiel blinks. “Anna should be fine. She tore out her grace and Fell, and was born as a human child. The spark of grace that is still inside her is only enough to make her keep the memories she had of her former life, and to make sure she could become an angel again if she chose to do so.”

“I’m not talking about Anna,” Dean retorts.

It takes Castiel a beat to understand the implications. “... you want me to tear out my grace.”

“You were going to feed it all – or most of it – into the sigil loop, right?”

“Yes, but there is no guarantee that, if I cut out my grace, I will be able to direct it and control where it goes.”

“But it’s worth a try,” Dean says, sounding vaguely hopeful. “Isn’t it? If you’re so dead set on the plan, okay, but if you have the choice between certain death and a possible life down here, then... we shouldn’t even be discussing this. If there’s even the slightest chance-“

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts him helplessly, because how is he supposed to tell Dean how dangerous this is, how much could go wrong, how is he supposed to crush his hopes again when this is all he could have hoped for himself, when his words ignite a spark of hope in himself, albeit a small one. Angels don’t fall like that, usually. They fall like Anna did, fall from Heaven down to earth and are born into humankind, normally not remembering their past outside of faded dreams. To his knowledge, no one has ever fallen when being stuck in his vessel, and there’s no guarantee that it could work. In fact, he thinks, the chances are slim. But then again, no one has fallen as gradually as he – and, to a certain extent, also Gabriel – has.

“No, Cas, you listen to me now. I know you don’t like being human. I get it. When you’re used to being all powerful and Smitey McSmiterson and hanging out on clouds this messy human business must suck royally. But you can’t honestly tell me that you’d prefer death over this. It’s not that bad, I swear.”

Castiel imagines it. He imagines himself, struggling with everything that being human entails and Dean and Sam helping him along, figuring it out, growing used to it. Ellen ordering them around and Jo trying to get him drunk. Bobby and Rufus, arguing in their gruff voices about everything and nothing at all. Anna’s quiet laughter and Lisa’s gentleness and Ben’s excitement, Becky’s fevered affection, Chuck’s resigned whining and Ash’s quirkiness. Him watching over Dean, staying by his side and growing old. He knows he’ll get his heart broken, but his friendship would be more than enough to make him content.

He wants it so badly it hurts.

Dean, apparently, takes his silent reverie as rejection. He’s trembling now, only faintly, nearly invisibly, but Castiel can hear it in the way his voice shakes roughly when he speaks again.

“Cas,” he pleads. “Stay.”

In that moment Castiel knows that even if he were more strong-willed, even if he were absolutely determined to die, even if he didn’t want to stay, he wouldn’t be able to deny him. Dean is right, it isn’t much more of a risk than certain death is. The promise is too tempting to resist; everything he desires offered up on a plate.

He nods. “I will need to talk to Gabriel,” he says quietly. “Ask him what he wants to do.”

Dean lets out the air in his lungs with a shuddering breath, relief clear on his face “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

∞

Gabriel lifts a sceptical eyebrow.

“You can decide what you do for yourself,” Castiel tells him. “But Dean has asked me to stay. I realise that it is risky, but I will try. No one will blame you if you want to return to Heaven.”

His brother smiles lopsidedly. “I think I liked this better when there was only one choice.”

It occurs to Castiel that this must be hard for Gabriel. He knows, of course, that there is a part of Gabriel – the biggest part maybe, even – that wants to stay on earth, because he has grown fond of their little ragtag of humans. It’s inevitable, really. But he is also aware that, if being human is hard for him, it would be even harder for Gabriel. Gabriel is accustomed to resorting to his powers for every little thing, from supplying the group with fresh vegetables to snapping a chocolate bar into existence, to going everywhere he wants to whenever he feels like it. Gabriel has always been fierce, indestructible, invincible. Castiel doesn’t doubt that the loss of his powers would send him spiralling downwards, take away a lot of his playfulness, his high spirit.

He also doesn’t doubt that Gabriel would forever regret leaving.

He watches Gabriel’s eyes wander over the people gathered in the living room, all visible from where they’re standing in the kitchen. Predictably, they come to rest upon the tallest figure, and he lets out a soft, strangled laugh.

“We need to coordinate ourselves,” he says, “down to the last second. I think with my spear we might actually have a chance of channelling the torn-out grace exactly where we want it, but if I’m only a second too early, you’re dead.”

Castiel suppresses a smile. “I trust you.”

“Yeah, well, but you are an idiot,” Gabriel says dryly and heads out. “You need to stay here,” he instructs them curtly, “stay inside, keep your eyes closed. Don’t come looking for us until after we’re done.” The he grins, suddenly and unexpectedly, and much brighter than one would expect considering the uncertainty of their plan. “See you on the other side, kiddos.”

He skips outside quickly, refusing to prolong the goodbye. Castiel moves to follow him out when Dean holds him back.

“Cas-“

Castiel gives him a small smile, and squeezes his hand in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “It will be alright, Dean.”

Dean hesitates, then squeezes back, only for a moment but as if he wants to confer all his strength with the simple gesture, and Castiel has to force himself to let go.

The air outside is dry and warm, and the breeze feels soothing on his face. Castiel thinks that if this is the end, it’s a good day to go. Gabriel is waiting for him by the nearest sigil, twirling his spear in his hand. For the first time since Castiel knows him, he actually looks nervous. “You ready?”

_Not quite_ , Castiel thinks, but what he says is “Yes.”

He, too, takes a hold of the spear when Gabriel drives it into the centre of the blood-painted sigil.

“On the count of three,” Gabriel announces. “Don’t hang behind.”

Castiel smiles. “See you on the other side.”

Gabriel smiles, too, and begins counting.

Castiel closes his eyes, draws in one last, deep breath, and then searches for the centre of himself, where the remains of his grace are pulsating through him, grabs a hold of it and _pulls._

Searing pain shoots through him, and he thinks he hears himself scream before everything explodes into a bright white light.

∞

His entire body hurts, every muscle, every fibre, every tendon, every cell, like the throbbing ache of burnt skin, and he gasps. His throat protests against the air he sucks in, feeling raw and itchy, but there is a soft warm pressure on his cheek. When he concentrates on it, some of the pain seems to fade into the background.

“Hey,” he hears someone above him say through a thick fog of dizziness and pain, “open your eyes, Cas, come on, breathe.”

Castiel blinks his eyes open slowly and is momentarily blinded by the light of the sun, until a face slides into focus, calmingly familiar.

Dean smiles. “Hey,” he says.

Castiel blinks and looks around. He realises, distantly, that his head is propped up on Dean’s legs, solid and warm and grounding him like everything about Dean does.

A few feet away from them, Sam is helping Gabriel to his feet. He looks smaller than he used to, but there is an overwhelmed smile on his face as well, like he can’t quite believe yet that it worked yet. Castiel knows his brother will be alright.

He focuses his attention back on Dean, who has his other hand curled into Castiel’s shirt. He lets go of the fabric, then, and grabs Castiel’s hand, tangling their fingers together and squeezing lightly, a quiet, relieved welcome.

A beginning.

“Hey,” Castiel rasps, his voice impossibly hoarse, and smiles back. “Hey.”

   


End file.
